


Survival

by HelenaHGWells



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Asexuality, F/M, Genderqueer, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, Violence, anxiety/panic attacks, definitely some kind of love, maybe platonic, maybe romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaHGWells/pseuds/HelenaHGWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn’t meant to stay, and yet here he was, still hanging around.</p><p>He told himself he stayed because he needed food and water and guzzoline. It wasn’t because of the realization that had hit him not five minutes after he’d left Furiosa and the Sisters. That they hadn’t won yet. That the city consisted mostly of the poor and sick and starving. That most of the Warboys were gone and the only ones left were those too young or too sick to fight. That there were plenty of people who didn’t want to give up the privileges they’d been afforded under Imortan Joe’s regime, and who wouldn’t mind a shot at his throne themselves. That there were warriors from Gastown and the Bullet Farm whose leaders had been slain in the field and who would soon be running low on water and mothers’ milk. That the remains of the war parties were trapped beyond the pass, but would soon be making their way back; slowly, and with losses given their lack of food and water and the injuries they’d suffered, but they would be back. There were a lot more people who wanted Furiosa dead, than those few who wanted her to survive.</p><p>So he stayed, just in case, and tried not to think too much about whose survival was motivating him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interlude

**Max**

 

He meant to leave.

 

After the crowd roared in celebration at the return of the Imperator with the body of their former Imortan; after the Pups overruled the few Warboys left in the Citadel and lowered the platform; after he’d hauled Furiosa from the Gigahorse and held her up while she shook and gripped his arm weakly so they could all see her and welcome her back. After he’d given her a nod goodbye as he disappeared into the crowd.

 

He had intended to leave.

 

_Get them home._

 

That’s all she asked of him; and he had. The sisters survived (well, most of them, he thinks, closing his eyes against the memory of Angharad’s body disappearing under the wheels of the Gigahorse, as if closing his eyes ever did anything to make his ghosts disappear). The _remaining_ sisters were home, and the remaining Mothers with them. He did what she asked.

 

It had only ever been about survival for him; that’s how he defined himself. He didn’t need a home; a place to stay, to carve out a life for himself. These things had ceased being options for him long ago. He was driven to survive; nothing more. It wasn’t in him live beyond that. Only to live, and keep living.

 

It had been for survival that he approached the War Rig with an unconscious Nux slung across his back, seeking something to sever himself from the Warboy. It had been survival when he’d fought Fusiosa tooth and nail, though his body was already beaten and scarred and drained from so many Warboys. It had been survival when he’d fired three bullets into the sand around her shaven head, desperate just to make her stop so that he could get free and get away. He hadn’t meant to make allies; when he fought by her side it was because he needed her to live so that he would live. When he fought to protect the Sisters it was because their best chance was together. When he suggested they fight their way back to the Citadel, it had been… for redemption, yes. But also because they wouldn’t survive in that desert of salt for long, and his best shot at food, supplies, and water, were with a band of warriors who knew how to fight and knew this was their best chance too.

 

It has always been about survival.

 

But then, after the pass had been blocked and the war parties cut off, and he was watching Furiosa’s life drain away in the back of that Gigahorse… whose survival was he fighting for then? Not his; he could have left them to return to the Citadel without him. He could have taken his chances on getting refueled and supplied without Furiosa’s say-so at the Citadel, or one of the surrounding encampments. The dry panic as he listened to her suck in agonized, rattling breaths; as he watched her skin turning blue; as he pushed a blade into her side in a desperate attempt to let air back into her lungs; as he thanked whatever gods might exist that he was a universal donor because even though life could be stolen life from him, it meant he could also push life back into Furiosa. When, as gently as he could, he’d cradled her head in his hands so she could whisper her dying wish; _get them home._ When he told her his name as she slipped away, unable suddenly to bear the thought that she might die not knowing who he was.

 

Whose survival was he fighting for then?

 

He hadn’t meant to stay, and yet here he still was, still hanging around.

 

It was the crowds, probably, that had sent him running. All those people chanting for Furiosa and the Sisters; cheering for them. He wasn’t a part of all that; he wasn’t from the Citadel. He’d just helped them get home, that was all. The shouts and the noise and the throng of bodies and eyes on him was overwhelming. He disappeared into the masses as soon as he could, turning back for one last look at them, at Furiosa, to make sure she saw him, that she knew. And when she nodded he knew it was because she understood, so he slipped away with her blessing.

 

He stayed because he needed food and water and guzzoline. Among the masses there was very little of anything, but Furiosa or the Sisters or whoever was in charge up top quickly set about democratizing access to the Citadel’s supplies. So he’d stayed long enough to get rations; to trade for guzzoline, to borrow tools from the mechanics to fix up his bike.

 

That’s why he told himself he’d stayed. It wasn’t because of the realization that had hit him not five minutes after he’d left Furiosa and the Sisters. That they hadn’t won yet. That the city consisted mostly of the poor and sick and starving. That most of the Warboys were gone and the only ones left were those too young or too sick to fight. That there were plenty of people who didn’t want to give up the privileges they’d been afforded under Imortan Joe’s regime, and who wouldn’t mind a shot at his throne themselves. That there were warriors from Gastown and the Bullet Farm whose leaders had been slain in the field and who would soon be running low on water and mothers’ milk. That the remains of the war parties were trapped beyond the pass, but would soon be making their way back; slowly, and with losses given their lack of food and water and the injuries they’d suffered, but they would be back. There were a lot more people who wanted Furiosa dead, than those few who wanted her to survive.

 

So he stayed, just to keep an eye. He kept his distance; never spoke to her or the Sisters. But he stuck around, just in case, and tried not to think too much about whose survival was motivating him now.

 

* * *

 

**Furiosa**

 

She was exhausted all the time. This had never been the plan; coming back here, taking the Citadel, trying to rule. She had meant to get away, back to the Green Place, back to the Mothers.  Now she was back in the place that stole her as a child, struggling desperately to maintain control as thousands of people looked to her to save them. No longer just five women depending on her. Now it was a whole city who needed food and water and medicine. And all she had were four Sisters who were trying not to show their fear at being back in this torturous place, along with the knowledge and wisdom of two Mothers. Not a clan, just two women; all that was left of the Vuvalini. So much had been lost; and she was so, so tired. And she _hurt_ ; just drawing breath was an effort so laborious she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier just to not; to lie down and die here.

 

But that wasn’t an option; she was a survivor, and not only that, she was a leader. A very reluctant one, no doubt. But the people needed someone to at least give them options, or they would all fall apart. They would welcome the war parties when they returned; there would be no fight, just a sigh of relief at the devil they knew, rather than this strange limbo.

 

The first thing, she knew, was to get the water flowing. To quell unrest; to cement the place of herself and the Sisters as emancipators, as heroes. To get the people into better shape. She had no warriors now, save the few sick Warboys who remained, some older Pups, and the surviving Sisters and Vuvalini. She needed the people to have food and water, to buy their loyalty if she had to, and to inspire them to fight for their freedom. She knew food was limited, but not nearly so limited as it had seemed with the way Joe jealously guarded it. And the water was plentiful; he’d doused the masses in a huge wasteful waterfall whenever he’d wanted to make a statement, and withheld it to show his power. But there was enough to go around, at least for now. So a huge basin was quickly constructed at the foot of the tower that had housed Joe and his offspring, and where water had exploded in infrequent gushes from the pipes, it now streamed in a constant trickle down the cliff face and into the pool below, where the people could easily fill their containers and drink whenever they needed. Capable was ready to give away all the food they had but The Dag quickly shut her down. Since inheriting The Keeper’s seed collection she had become increasingly interested in where food came from, and a quick consultation of the Sisters’ rather impressive library told them that food was slow to mature, sometimes finicky to coax into life, and above all must be conserved. Thank the gods or whoever was out there that Imortan Joe had actually valued educating his wives. Without the knowledge held in those books, and with the loss of so many elders, they would have been done for.

 

Once people had access to water, and rations of food, and the freedom to move about as they pleased, they began to govern themselves, more or less. Hunting parties left the Citadel every day in search of lizards and birds for meat; ragtag groups of sick and skinny but determined former-Wretched, filled with new life and determination. Furiosa and the Sisters still controlled the purse strings, but they didn’t try to limit or control the cities inhabitants too much. For one, they couldn’t; their power was tenuous at best. And for the other, they didn’t want to; they had little knowledge or experience, and even less to offer in terms of structure and guidance. They were welcomed as emancipators and figureheads of freedom, but they all knew how precariously they held that position. Better to give people the tools and freedom to fend for themselves, so no one would start to question why they were at the top.

 

The remaining Warboys had been easier to win over than Furiosa had expected. She didn’t think they’d have much fight in them; they were sick and nearing the end of their half-lives, and given her control of the water and food supplies she was fairly certain they wouldn’t pose much of a threat. But she hadn’t counted on how much a Warboy’s psyche could change as he neared the end of his days. No longer with the promise of a glorious death and Valhalla ahead of him, the Boys--now men--looked doubtful in the ever-approaching face of death. They were the survivors; the ones who hadn’t gone out in a blaze of glory; the ones who had lived too long and missed their chance so that now living was all they had left. As their youth was left far behind and their bodies began to fail, they saw their futures and they were afraid. They did not want to die; not like that.

 

It was Capable who had thought to give them medicine. She was already predisposed to warm to the Warboys, after Nux. And with the remaining Vuvalini knowledge of the body, and The Dag’s research into the healing properties of plants, and a good raid of Joe’s Organic Mechanic’s supplies, the Sisters soon came up with some options for improving, and perhaps even sustaining--just for a little longer--the lives of the ailing Warboys. But perhaps most surprisingly, it was Cheedo who suggested the Blood Tax. She had hardened quite astoundingly during their flight, and her suggestion was matter-of-fact and entirely practical. The Warboys needed blood transfusions to stretch out what remained of their half-lives, and to keep them useful. The people needed food and water. Many of them were only sick because they were poor and oppressed, not because they were diseased. The Sisters weren’t going to use people as bloodbags, but they also couldn’t rely on kindness and altruism to get what they needed. After a moment of exchanging shocked looks, the harsh reality won them over. The Blood Tax was quickly installed; everyone would give blood once a week in exchange for rations and the guarantee of consistent water. Those with high-octane blood and those who were universal donors would get extra rations... up to a point; Capable quickly noted as she recognized repeat donors that the people would bleed themselves dry in order to access to more food.

 

With the former-Wretched now quickly improving in health, the remaining Warboys improving too, and a plethora or Pups running worshipfully at her heals, Furiosa felt more in control than she had in a long time. But she also knew it couldn’t last; within a week the remaining warriors from the war parties would be at their door; the inhabitants of Gastown and the Bullet Farm would soon be clamoring to have their store replenished; they were dangerously low on bullets and guzzoline; and barely anyone in the Citadel could fight or shoot worth a damn. And none of their strategies were calculated for longterm survival; they were simply borrowing time. Her first move upon her return had been to lock Corpus Colossus away in his chambers before anyone had a clear idea of what was going on, and that had probably saved all their lives; in the wake of Imortan Joe’s death, he was the next in line to lead. It was only the briefest hesitation by the Warboys, caused by her quick display of dominance in all the confusion, and the physical weakness of Corpus Colossus, that had allowed her to usurp him so easily. But he was both fiercely intelligent and determined not to surrender. Already the rumors were circulating of a coup, with few people vocally taking sides--preferring to hang back and assess the most likely winner--but everyone watching and waiting.

 

The tension was more oppressive than the thick, hot air. And she was tired, and weak, and sore. A few half-hearted attempts had been made on her life by a Warboy here and there, no doubt a follower of Corpus Colossus. She knew she was unlikely to survive a concerted attack. They were testing her. And there were precious few people she could count on to back her up. The wives had limited fighting skills, though Toast had taken to following her like a shadow, gun always by her twitching trigger-finger. Her dogged trailing of Furiosa had come in useful more than once. The remaining Vuvalini and a few of the more healthy Warboys made up a fairly unintimidating entourage; she felt like she was moving through a warzone, open to attack at all times. Not unlike the way she had felt before she’d fled, only worse now.

 

And more enemies were coming. She felt their presence grow stronger every day. She had never intended to return ‘home’; this was not home for her. She wanted the Sisters to get back safely, but she hadn’t anticipated getting back with them. She didn’t really understand why the life had stopped draining out of her in the back of the Gigahorse, but for whatever reason, she was alive, just barely. And now she had to keep living. She didn’t have the luxury of walking away like Max.

 

She didn’t think of Max if she could help it. There was too much else to occupy her mind; too much energy that had to be spent on pure survival, and he was no longer part of that effort. He’d gone his own way. And she wasn’t surprised that he had; she was good at sizing people up, and from the moment she negotiated their way back onto the War Rig, she knew he was someone who could be brought onside, so long as their aims were aligned. Perhaps she’d known it when she looked out her window as Joe’s war party caught up to her and she saw him tied to the front of a car; face muzzled, limbs bound. She’d recognized a kindred spirit. But she hadn’t expected him to become a fierce ally, and she’d surprised herself with the terrified determination with which she’d held onto him as he hung upside down, inches from her front wheels, a knife in her side and her iron grip slipping.

 

They’d helped get each other through; he’d got them home, like he promised her. And then he left as she knew he would. She didn’t think about his hands cradling her head. She pushed away the memory of their heads held close together, foreheads almost touching as she whispered her dying wish, trusting that he’d follow through in a way she rarely trusted anyone. She didn’t think about the way he said his name, like it was the last thing he could give her; the only thing he had of value. _My name is Max._

 

She can’t think about him at all. All she can do is keep surviving.

 

 


	2. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Thanks for reading. I don't have a clear idea where this is going right now, but I wanted to have a chance to explore Furiosa and Max off the road, with all their various issues.
> 
> Also FYI, I've tagged this story with rape/non-con because it's in the pasts of the Sisters (and maybe Furiosa, though I don't know that I want to headcannon that for her, even though the comics seem to). It'll only ever be implied though.

**Max**

 

He was afraid to stay because he didn’t want to see her die, and her death seemed inevitable. He knew the opposition they were facing. He’s heard the rumors; the rumblings of discontent. People are never happy, he’s discovered over the years. They always hope for better, even when hope is an illusion. Worse, they demand it and become enraged when they are disappointed. So it doesn’t surprise him when he hears the mutterings against Furiosa and the Sisters’ rule.

 

It doesn’t surprise him, but it does alarm him, and he fights to quiet the panic in his chest. He’s no good to them if he loses it, and he’s almost always on the edge as it is. The decision to try and continue being of use to them is surprising too. He knows it’s what’s keeping him here, because he can’t accept the inevitability of their deaths, not if he can do something to perhaps prevent it. But calling it a ‘decision’ is wrong too. All that’s happened is that he’s become too paralyzed with indecision to leave. Because hope is a mistake and their deaths _are_ inevitable. They came back for redemption; he can’t possibly hope that they’ll find more than that. Redemption in death.

 

Still, he’s here, trying to ignore that little flicker of hope that sparks in his chest every day he sees Furiosa still alive and, if not exactly healthy, still upright and breathing.

 

Being with Furiosa on the War Rig during those interminable hours of intense peril was… not exactly calming, but perhaps grounding. He felt more lucid with her than he had in years. The voices quietened and he was able to think straight long enough to put sentences together again. Furiosa seemed to be his opposite. She was impassive, her face a mask, her actions full of grit and determination, as if through sheer force of will she could pull them all through. She seemed to relish the fight; a stillness settling over her as she took aim, fired, reloaded, aimed again. Just like shifting gears; it was second nature. Watching her helped him to focus too.

 

And when her expression had cracked, when her brow furrowed with fear and doubt, he’d felt a desperate need to redouble his efforts, to provide the same strength that he drew from her resoluteness. And when she howled with grief in the desert, knowing that the Green Place was just a bog of salt and death, and that the Many Mothers were now so very few, the fear that had welled up in him had threatened to overtake him entirely. That’s why he decided to go his own way, letting them drive off into the desert without him. Her heartbreak was infectious and he feared it would destroy what was left of him. But in the end, she was determined to keep going; to keep her little band together and give them the best chance she could. Perhaps hope was a mistake. But keeping it alive in her suddenly became all-important, as if through her, perhaps he could find a way to hope again. Perhaps he could find a way to really live, not just in a fleeting moment, but for a future.

 

In the past week, since their return from the desert, he has seen her only fleetingly, and what little he has seen has not been reassuring. She is on edge. She’s pale and weak. She squares her shoulders and raises her chin as she walks in public but he guesses how she hurts; he knows what punishment her body took on the War Rig. He’s amazed, but not surprised that she’s still standing. Her eye is no longer swollen shut but the purple and crimson bruise covers half her face. And she’s got a new arm; she must have had spares, he assumes. Furiosa’s arm is a weapon, and she’d had ten guns stashed all over the cab of the War Rig. Why would she risk only having one metal arm?

 

He watches her from an anonymous sea of faces, and listens to the murmurs of those around him, soaks in the chatter of the Repair Boys as he works on his bike. Something is coming for her. Too many people want to take her out.

 

It happens the following day. He’s standing in line for rations near the water pool. There’s a crowd but they’re being fairly orderly; they have to check in to receive their food, so Cheedo can verify that they haven’t received their lot already, and that they’ve paid their Blood Tax. The rations are held on the platform that used bring Joe’s war machines to the ground. Now it ferries food from the hydroponics farms down to the people below. People file into the gaping hole at the bottom of the cliff, towards the Organic Mechanic’s rooms where a pint of blood is quickly siphoned and put into storage, or hooked up to a Warboy directly. Another line of civilians files back out again and up to the platform where they register their names with Cheedo or sometimes Toast, and then a Pup scampers to bring them a bag of rations.

 

He hasn’t come for rations since the tax was instigated. He’d tried once but the thought of the IVs and needles had given him a powerful flashback to being bled like a pig in the caves of the Organic Mechanic. Where he’d been stripped naked and poked and prodded and they’d carved their assessment of his useful attributes into his back, before trying brand him like a lump of meat. He’d jerked back from the hallucination of the hot iron coming at his face, stumbled away blindly, drawing shaking breaths, fighting back the hands that grabbed at him while Angharad screamed _We are not things._

 

But he needs food, so he returns and waits in line, counting his breaths, staring hard at the shoulder of the person in front of him, trying not to think about what comes next.

 

He’s so buried in his thoughts that he doesn’t see her walk by, head up, expression set, shoulders squared. But he feels the shift in the mood of the crowd and looks up warily. Imperator Furiosa. It’s not the usual titter of excitement; it’s something more menacing. Anticipation of a coming storm.

 

Suddenly there’s a Warboy in front of her, blocking her path. He’s big and surprisingly strong-looking in comparison to the other Warboys Max has seen in the Citadel. This one must have been left behind because he was ailing at the time the call went up to send all the healthy boys out to war, but not so near to the end of his half-life that Capable’s rudimentary healthcare program couldn’t bring him temporarily back to full strength.

 

Temporary or not, the Warboy cuts an imposing figure as he squares off to Furiosa, blocking her path. She doesn’t react, well-practiced at keeping her expression neutral. But Max has been in close and terrifying quarters with her for two days of teetering on the brink of death, and he recognizes the spasm in her jaw and the way her bio hand clenches reflexively. She’s worried. His hand moves to his gun instinctively.

 

“Traitor,” the Warboy growls at her, getting as as close to her face as he can. She doesn’t flinch, but her fingers twitch towards her gun.

 

“What did you say to me?” she responds, voice steady.

 

“You’re a filthy traitor. Stole from Joe, took his prize breeders, and now you come back here acting like some fucking hero when all you are is a traitorous bitch. Joe should never have made a woman his Imperator.”

 

“We are not things,” Toast hisses from the platform of rations. “Joe thought he could own us, and now he’s in pieces all over the Citadel. This is _our_ home now.”

 

“You’d best step back now, boy,” Furiosa’s voice is quiet and threatening.

 

The Warboy doesn’t move. The seconds tick by, Furiosa’s hand twitching towards her gun again, trying to avoid starting something in this crowd of unarmed citizens but clearly worried. Max snakes his way through the press of bodies towards her, weapon in hand, ready to start shooting if the Warboy makes a move.

 

Suddenly a man in the crowd lunges forward towards the rations, taking advantage of the temporary distraction to claim some extra food. A couple of Pups race to block him and as his skinny worn fingers close around a canvas bag, one of them catches him in the face with his foot and he stumbles back. But he’s inspired something in the others and the crowd suddenly surges forward, arms outstretched, desperate and grasping like they used to for the water Joe rained down on them beneficently. Cheedo shrieks as she’s suddenly surrounded by a mass of clawing hands and she scrambles back onto the platform with the rations, kicking out at the hands that grab at her to pull her out of the way.

 

At the sound of Cheedo’s scream Furiosa’s head snaps around in alarm, and the Warboy takes his chance, catching her with a blow to the head that sends her stumbling. Her gun goes skittering into the sand and she scrambles for it blindly, but the Warboy pulls her back and rears up to slam his fists into her head again. She kicks out and catches him in the gut, sending him tumbling backwards as she struggles back to her feet, shaking her head to try and clear it. Max is shoving his way furiously through the crowd around him, his legs having started moving when the big Warboy moved to swing at Furiosa. He breaks through the masses just as she looks up and her eyes meet his, and he catches surprise and then relief flickering across her face. He’s almost with her when she yells, “Cheedo!” and he skitters to a halt, turning to see the youngest Sister being swallowed up by the masses. He only hesitates for a second, heeding Furiosa’s command as he sees her spin back to her feet and land a solid punch to the Warboy’s face with her metal arm. She’s not out yet; she’s never out. He plunges back into the crowd, fighting people back til he can get his hands on Cheedo and pull her back to the platform.

 

The rations are a moving swarm of people now, clawing and grabbing at everything. He kicks and punches at them, trying to clear them away while Cheedo scrambles to give the signal to raise the platform. Shots ring out behind him and the crowd shrieks and shrinks back. He turns to see Toast, shotgun in hand, reloading and taking aim. Max spins to find her target and sees another Warboy behind Furiosa, powder-white arm raised to plunge his knife into her back. Toast fires again and he crumples, but as the crowd shrieks again and starts to retreat, Max sees that several more Warboys have materialized, sneaking in under cover of the riot. This is a planned attack.

 

As the platform creaks upward to safety Max hurls himself back down to earth, aiming his gun as he dashes forward, quickly squeezing off a couple of shots into the Warboy who has a hold of Furiosa’s mechanical arm. Suddenly freed, she spins back to face the biggest Warboy, but not quickly enough. He punches her hard in the side, right where her chest cavity had filled up with air until Max jammed a blade through her flesh in a desperate attempt to save her. She crumples with an agonizing cry. Max at her side just as the Warboy moves to give what he clearly anticipated to be a finishing blow. Max’s fist connects with his face, then his knee with the boy’s gut, and finally an elbow to the back of his head. He presses the butt of his gun to the base of his skull, ready for the killshot.

 

“No!” Furiosa’s voice rings out, stopping him again in his tracks. He looks up to see her struggling to her feet, panting, a look of controlled rage on her face. “I want him alive,” she growls.

 

More shots ring out from above, not hitting anything, more for effect, Max realizes. The crowd is quickly dissipating, fleeing the violence. Another group of Warboys spills from the mouth of the cave and Max tenses, but Furiosa shakes her head quickly.

 

“They’re ours.”

 

The two Vuvalini are with them, he notes, and they quickly surround Joe’s downed loyalists.

 

Furiosa is still bent double, breathing heavily as she spits blood and wipes her mouth. She moves slowly but deliberately, her face set into an expression of practiced indifference as straightens up to face the initiating Warboy.

 

“Joe is dead,” she speaks loudly so her voice echoes around the rock and the people now cowering further away stop to listen. “This is our city now. All of us. You may be unsure of this new order, and you may have made some poor choices. The time for forgiveness for these errors is rapidly drawing to a close. Make your choices wisely. Anyone who has thus far chosen unwisely, will be forgiven if they join us. Anyone who stands against us--who stands against this city--will not be tolerated.”

 

The Warboy at her feet spits and growls at her again, but his words die in his mouth as Max drives a boot into his chest.

 

“Take them to the cells,” Furiosa says quietly to the Vuvalini.

 

The woman he thinks is called Mara is at his side dragging the Warboy to his feet and propelling him and the others towards the caves of the Organic Mechanic. He stares after them, his mouth turning dry as panic starts to creep up his spine and memories pull him down and under, drowning him in those caves.

 

“Max.”

 

A voice cuts through the deafening fog in his brain and he snaps back to the present to see Furiosa standing in front of him.

 

He has never heard her say his name before. He didn’t even know for sure that she knew it. But she calls to him now like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be there. Like he’d never been away.

 

* * *

 

**Furiosa**

 

“Max.”

 

He meets her gaze, his face a mask of fear that slowly slips into confusion and then fades to slow clarity. She tries to ignore the stabbing pain in her side left by the Warboy’s fist, waiting for him to really see her. Then she says, “Come with me.”

 

The platform is almost back on the ground, all the rations having been quickly removed. Toast shifts warily, shotgun still ready, but she darts glances at Max and her eyes show her relief. He follows Furiosa silently onto the platform, looking around uncertainly, suddenly exposed. Toast gives the signal to bring them up.

 

He looks thinner, like he hasn’t been eating well since he got here. And he keeps looking away distractedly, like other voices are clamoring for his attention; more like he did when they’d first met. But he keeps looking back to meet her gaze, and she takes that as a good sign.

 

“I thought you left,” she says simply.There’s no accusation in it, just a statement of fact.

 

He seems to still again at the sound of her voice.

 

“I meant to,” he starts, gaze dropping again. “But then I thought- maybe- I could be useful.”

 

He looks up again, brow furrowed, eyes squinting with that concerned and slightly bewildered look he wore for the first two hours of their journey on the rig. She wonders if he’s asking her for permission. Or if he’s asking if his presence is welcome.

 

Her stomach twists. She feels exactly the way she did when she told him a bike loaded up with supplies was his if he wanted to join her and the women in their long drive across the salt. He’d said no then, and she can still feel the way her lungs deflated the disappointment, like a punch to the gut. But then he’d come after them anyway. And he’s still here.

 

“You’re staying?” she asks by way of answer, an edge of hopefulness that he can’t miss creeping into her voice.

 

He nods awkwardly. “If you’ll have me.”

 

She’s sure the relief must flood across her face but she tries to remain impassive. Still, her voice comes out thick with emotion when she responds.

 

“There’s always a place for you here.”

 

He nods again, studying his boots, but she thinks the muscles in his face relax a little, and some of the tension shifts from his shoulders.

 

“You have somewhere to stay?”

 

He nods out toward the encampments outside of the cliffs and she follows his gaze. Many of the inhabitants have moved into the mountain now that the space has been freed up from the lack of Warboys. The hallways are becoming clogged with people shuffling their few belongings into new homes. Whole families cramming into spaces built for two Warboys, with no further furnishings than a bunk bed and little room for anything else. It was probably easy for Max to find an abandoned shelter outside, and he probably preferred the solitude.

 

As they reach the docking platform Max hesitates, eyeing the darkness warily. Toast jumps down ahead of them.

 

“I’ll tell Dag you’re coming,” she calls, and heads inside.

 

Furiosa knows Toast wants her to go to Dag for medicine; to dress her new wounds and check her old ones. But Max is getting twitchier by the second and she knows if she pushes him he’ll disappear again. Seeing him burst through the crowd brought such a surge of relief. Lying on the ground with a rabble out of control, a murderous Warboy at her heals, and Cheedo’s screams in her ears, she had felt once again so crushingly helpless. And then she saw Max and she knew she had a chance; that she didn’t have to run in all directions at once. He saw what she needed and he gave her the time and space to get it done, rescuing Cheedo so she could focus on her attackers. And then Toast had started firing and everything had started to come together. They were a great team, and she needed him here right now.

 

She waits for him at the mouth of the cave as he seems make up his mind on whether to follow her.

 

“It’s ok,” she tells him softly.

 

He nods but doesn’t take another step. She hates this place too; it’s so full of terrible memories. But she hasn’t been triggered by the caves themselves in a long time. He stares at her and his pupils are huge, though he’s clearly fighting not to show his fear, his face full of the conflict of wanting to follow her while his muscles scream to run the other way.

 

“It’s ok,” she repeats, and stretches out her hand towards him. He looks at it like she’s thrown him a lifeline but it’s going to take all of his strength for him to accept it. She can see the ghosts screaming at him as he reaches for her.

 

He moves forward decisively and closes his fingers around hers. It feels like when he offered her his hand in the desert when he suggested coming back here. It’s a promise to face things together. His grip is firm in hers, just like it was then.

 

“Ready?”

 

He nods and squares his shoulders, following her into the darkness. She hears him exhale when they step over the threshold and the ghosts don’t come for him.

 

“How can you stand it?” There’s no judgement in his tone; only sympathy from someone who knows what it's like to live in the place of your trauma.

 

“We’re safer in here now than we were out there,” she replies simply. It’s always been a matter of bad or worse options for her. Die in the salt, or at the hands of the Warboys. Or make it back to the home of so many awful memories and try to start over. Reclaim it. It’s why she’s stayed. It’s her best chance, and the best chance of the Sisters.

 

He grunts in something that might be agreement, or maybe a mirthless laugh at the impossibility of their situation.

 

“Didn’t seem that safe for you back there,” he counters.

 

She nods. “Seems like every day someone tries to put a knife to my throat or a gun to my head. I have Warboys I think are loyal working with the Sisters, but we’re spread so thin and things are… precarious. Anyone can be turned with the right motivation. And there are a lot of new faces.”

 

The Sisters hadn’t wanted to go back to Joe's residences even before they started moving most of the Citadel tribes inside, and those rooms were quickly repurposed for meetings with the Milk Mothers, the representatives of the remaining Warboys, the Repair Boys, and those of Joe’s inner circle who had--for now at least--pledged allegiance to Furiosa and the Sisters. Furiosa had never taken the rooms owed to her as Imperator, preferring to stay in the regular bunks close to her crew, and further from Joe. The Sisters had quickly moved a few belongings into the neighbouring rooms where her Warboys used to sleep; Dag with Cheedo of course; Capable with Toast; and the Vuvalini on the other side of them.

 

At first the bunks around them were fairly empty, but it didn’t take long for the remaining Warboys to upgrade their residences and move closer to the seat of power, and then the Repair Boys too; and then came the citizens of the encampments in the levels further down. Now there were so many unfamiliar faces when Furiosa walked to her room, threats could be lurking anywhere. She slept fully clothed, arm attached, with a gun under her pillow, one under the bed, and a knife in her belt--when she slept at all. And after the hard run of the Fury Road, the injuries that needed rest and sleep to heal, and the constant adrenaline-fueled days that had followed their return, she was in desperate need of some sleep.

 

“Capable has plans to expand the residences; repurpose some of the space. Spread people out a little so we’re not all so… close.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Planning for the future?” She can hear what he leaves unspoken. _Hope is a mistake_.

 

“It gives them something to fight for.”

 

“Fighting’s good.”

 

She lets go of his hand to unbolt the door that leads up to the rooms she shares with the Sisters. He rubs his palms together slowly like he’s trying to get used to the absence. Still, he doesn’t falter, following after her steadily, confidence growing.

 

“Have you eaten today?” she asks as they turn down a long hallway of iron doors.

 

He shakes his head. “Was lining up for rations. Have to give to the Blood Tax though.”

 

He doesn’t have to say more; she can guess the trauma that must come with going through that process, in this space. The first time she saw him he was strung up on a war machine, blood being stolen to fuel a half-life. _Bloodbag_.

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

“I don’t need special treatment,” he responds gruffly.

 

“It’s not special treatment. You already donated this week. I hear that’s why I’m still standing: your blood in my veins.”

 

He stops to look at her, like he wasn’t sure she knew. Then he gives her what might be a small smirk. “High octane.”

 

She smiles back slowly. “Apparently.”

 

They’ve reached the rooms where she and the women sleep. Twisting the heavy iron handle on the closest door she slides the bolt back; it swings open to reveal a sparse, small room containing a bunkbed, a couple of shelves with some extra clothes and blankets, and a small table holding a large bowl and washrag.

 

“This is my room. You can leave your things here if you like. There’s a bathroom down the hall; there’s running water so you can wash up there, or fill up the basin and bring it back here,” she indicates the bowl on the table.

 

“Wash up?” He gives her a disbelieving look, his lips quirk in what could almost turn into a smile at the long unfamiliar concept. Water for washing.

 

“I know,” she can’t help but start to smile back. “I’ll be in the council rooms- they’re right upstairs. Come and join me when you’re done. I’ll have food ready for you.”

 

He nods, and she leaves him eyeing the basin uncertainly and looking warily down the hall, his forehead still crinkled with that mixture of concern and disbelief that he’d come to associate so strongly with him. That look had made her trust him. It told her that his motivations weren’t set in stone; that killing wasn’t his objective despite how willing he was to hurt people; that he was conflicted about it. That he could be won over.

 

She passes the bathrooms on her way up to the council chambers, hearing him follow behind her at a distance. When she looks back, he’s making his way back her room with a bowl full of water. She watches him push the door open before looking back up the hallway towards her. Their eyes meet again for a second as he sees her watching him, and he gives her a little nod of thanks before disappearing inside and locking the door behind him.

 

Most people just strip right down in the bathrooms, throwing water around liberally, no care for who sees them. She would never leave herself so vulnerable, and she’s unsurprised that Max doesn’t either.

 

This is all very new though; even as Imperator she didn’t really ‘bathe’. Joe was stingey with water even with those most loyal to him. He only cared about his wives being clean. But Capable had been horrified at the idea that people couldn’t do something as simple as clean themselves, especially given the number of injuries they were carrying. What good was medicine and food when everyone was going around with gaping wounds full of desert sand? Meanwhile gallons and gallons of clean water were being sprayed all over the plants every day.

 

The Repair Boys had leapt to action at Dag’s suggestion that water could be made readily available in the rudimentary communal bathrooms, giving the new residents easy access, and the runoff could be rerouted to the pipes that fed the plants. There was even a suggestion that a system could be set up in the hydroponics rooms to collect clean water from the plants and recycle it; all that was needed was an efficient catchment and distribution system, then the condensation could captured and reused again and again. From the Repair Boys’ enthusiasm, Furiosa gathered that these suggestions had been made before, but war machines had always been prioritized over improved infrastructure. Given that Joe only needed enough water for his immediate circle and the plants, he wasn’t too concerned with running out in his lifetime. The idea that they could implement some of their own long-talked about solutions was cementing the loyalty of the Repair Boys even more firmly.

 

But this was all months away, at best. The Sisters loved planning, especially Dag and Capable. Perhaps it was losing Nux that focused Capable so intensely; she wanted to honor his sacrifice by doing something worthy with her life. Toast would mostly brood and sometimes snap impatiently, unable to rid herself of the awareness that Warboys were coming; a couple of weeks away at most, skirting their way around the mountains. Cheedo also watched doubtfully.There were still clouds on the horizon; plenty more war to get through before they might have a chance to rebuild in peace. All they had managed to do so far was give the new inhabitants access to clean water. They could worry about water conservation later; right now they needed war machines.

 

The arguments in the council meetings about priorities and methods were vociferous and unrelenting. With so many immediate concerns, no one seemed to be able to agree on the best way forward, and Furiosa knew how important it was to make concessions to keep enough of the group on side, without giving the impression that they could be easily swayed; that they were weak leaders. The Sisters were well educated but their crash course in real life over the last week hadn’t done much to bring them up to speed in the ways of war. But Capable was proving herself to be skilled negotiator, and Toast knew a lot more about the Citadel’s operations than they had initially realized. Dag was the favourite of the Repair Boys, who had thus far backed her on everything. Cheedo had been largely silent, but Furiosa was beginning to see in her an aptitude for weighing up the likelihood of survival in any given situation, regardless of how distasteful the options might be, along with a penchant for manipulation. Furiosa no longer mistook her silence for fear and fragility; Cheedo was always sizing everyone up, calculating the odds.

 

The council was due to meet in an hour, after the day’s rationing was completed. Before the rationing had turned into a riot. The lightness she had felt at seeing Max again began to dissipate. She was not prepared for another three hours of arguing and posturing and inaction. It felt like the worst waste of time, with nothing being accomplished and no one willing to back down. And there was a very real possibility of getting a knife in her side again if she pissed off the wrong person, or if she wasn’t forthright enough and they doubted her resolve. She wasn’t convinced that this latest attack wasn’t the work of a dissatisfied council member. The Sisters were getting better at holding their own, but she was still the enforcer. She was still the Imperator. She knew hope was a mistake, and yet she couldn’t quell the little flutter in her chest at the thought that, if Max stayed, maybe he could have her back in there. It would be such a relief to have someone else in the room she could trust, who she knew would back her up.

 

But Max was unreliable at best. The clarity that had come over him in the desert as he’d fought by her side was fleeting. He seemed to have regressed over the last week, turning back inward. Though when he spoke with her just now it had seemed that the fog had lifted. The question was, did he want to stay? And could he find peace enough here to bring himself back to who he was, and who she needed him to be if he was going to be any help to her?  A split-second decision in a gunfight was very different to the strategizing and corralling of a city. She sensed he had an aptitude for it; from whatever he was before. But could his mind stay clear enough to be that way again?

  
It was pointless to speculate; he might be gone in a few days. But she thought he’d left the moment they made it back to the Citadel, and yet, here he was. Still here, in case he could ‘be useful’. He seemed willing, and that was a start. Because yes, she could really use him at her side right now.

 


	3. Green

**Max**

 

It feels really good to be clean. He’s always loved the feeling of water on his skin; of sloughing off the dirt and sand of daily life; washing away blood- sometimes his own, sometimes someone else's. He doesn’t get to do it very often.

 

He removes his leg brace and lowers himself slowly into the bottom bunk so he can scrub the sand out of the hinges. It could use some oil, and some general repairs. He stretches out his leg and rubs at the scarring of his shattered knee, easing the ache a little.

 

He rummages about in his pack til he finds another shirt and pair of pants that are in pretty good shape, strapping the brace back on before braving the communal bathroom to wash the dirt and grime off the clothes he’s discarded. He thinks about hanging them up to dry in Furiosa’s room, but there’s no air moving down here, and he figures they’ll just moulder. Instead he takes them with him as he sets off to find the council rooms, sensing from the fresh airflow coming down the stairs that there must be windows up there.

 

He finds his way by the sound of the Sisters’ voices. He can hear them up ahead, their soft lilting tones as they talk excitedly, coming from the end of the hall where the rooms seem brightly lit and the air feels fresh and clear. He can feel his spirit lighten with every step he takes towards them.

 

“Is it true?”

 

“Is he really back?”

 

“Is he staying?”

 

That first one was Capable; the second he thinks was Dag; and the last definitely Toast.

 

“For now.” There’s no mistaking Furiosa’s calm, even tone as she responds to all three questions with the only answer she can be sure of.

 

When he pushes open the door he has to squint as his eyes adjust to the brightness, and he gazes around blearily, aware of the hush that has fallen over the room.

 

“Max!” Capable is suddenly in front of him, smiling like the sun. She slips her arms around his neck and his eyebrows raise in surprise but he doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t pull away. The physical contact is unnerving; it’s been a very long time since anyone touched him with kindness or showed him affection. He’s afraid to move in case he scares her away.

 

But she seems unperturbed, releasing him and smiling warmly, taking his wet clothes to spread them out in the sun to dry. At one end of the room, where the sun lights the walls most brightly, is an opening out to the fresh air. He realizes it must be the balcony which looks like a skull from the outside.

 

Cheedo takes her place at his side, also grinning widely, and blessedly in one piece.

 

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers, as she stands on her tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

 

He coughs awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, looking away, looking anywhere but at her as he mumbles, “You’re welcome.”

 

His awkwardness seems to delight her because she smiles even more broadly, and she takes his hand and pulls him towards the table saying, “Come, sit. We have food for you.”

 

He makes eye contact with Furiosa finally, who is sitting at the table letting Dag patch up fresh wounds. Though she doesn’t exactly smile, he feels like she’s enjoying his bemusement as the Sisters fuss over him. He enjoys that she’s enjoying it.

 

He lets Cheedo pull him to a chair but Dag won’t let him eat yet, pouncing on him with a pot of freshly crushed herbs. He pulls back reflexively when she moves to touch his face and she scowls at him, reprimanding, “Hold still.”

 

“It’s better not to fight her,” Furiosa tells him wryly, inspecting her fresh bandages and earning herself a slap on the wrist from Dag.

 

“Don’t touch them!”

 

Furiosa raises her eyebrows as if to say, _Did you just slap the Imperator?_ But she stops fiddling and gives Max a look that says, _See?_ And he finds that he’s almost smiling now too, though he doesn’t breathe the whole time that Dag is working on the cut above his eye, her soft breath fluttering against his lashes as she rubs the oils from the herbs into his skin with gentle fingers. Furiosa pushes a plate towards him as Dag shifts around to check the wound on his arm. He picks up a spoon gratefully and starts shovelling it down. Dag makes a _tsk_ sound at her uncooperative patient.

 

“Let him eat, Dag,” Furiosa chastises her gently.

 

“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you have fleshrot,” she sulks, heading back to her seat.

 

“Duly noted,” Max murmurs between mouthfuls, and gives Furiosa a sidelong look. She’s definitely smiling now.

 

He runs his eye over her as he eats, able to better check her injuries at this proximity. Her arm sits unstrapped on the table to give Dag better access to her ribs.

 

He nods at the fresh bandages. “How’s your side?”

 

“Better than the other one,” she replies, wincing as she shifts to check the dressing on the right side of her body, where the deep wound had almost made her bleed out on the War Rig. A spike in one side, knife in the other. Wearing her metal arm must be agony.

 

His forehead crinkles with concern. “The straps must hurt.”

 

She shrugs. “This arm’s built a little different. The straps sit lower.”

 

“She shouldn’t wear it at all,” Dag mutters.

 

“If I could be sure I wouldn’t need it, I wouldn’t wear it,” Furiosa responds patiently, in a tone that suggests they’ve had this argument many times and she is in no mood to go through it again.

 

“It’s been bad?”

 

“There are still a lot of people here loyal to Joe. Now they’re loyal to Corpus Colossus,” Toast speaks from across the room where she’s been keeping a wary distance. “Turns out getting home was only half the battle.” Her tone is biting, and he can’t miss the reprimand. She’s angry he left them.

 

He glances up at the other Sisters. They don’t seem angry, but they’re watching him intently, like they’re waiting for an explanation. He risks a look at Furiosa. She won’t meet his eye.

 

“Did we lose much today?” she changes the subject.

 

Capable flips through a few pages in her ration book before shaking her head. “This week’s rations took a pretty big hit, but we have more. It shouldn’t set us back too much.”

 

“Good,” Cheedo breathes a sigh of relief. “They won’t be able to fight if they can’t eat.”

 

So that’s their plan; feed up the citizens, get them into better shape, and arm them? It’s a dangerous one, relying heavily on the loyalty of people who were easily bought.

 

“What’s to stop them turning on you and taking everything once you give them weapons?”

 

“ _You_ didn’t,”  Dag points out.

 

He frowns at being lumped in with the Wretched.

 

“Besides, we’re not trying to keep anything from them; just manage our supplies so there’s enough to go around. Think the folks at Gastown and the Bullet Farm are going to be so generous? The people of the Citadel will have to fight for their freedom, just like the rest of us.”

 

He decides not to respond to that. Her belief in the goodness of mankind runs counter to almost every experience he’s ever had. But he doesn’t want to shatter her illusions. And besides, what other choice did they have? They couldn’t defend the city alone; four Sisters, two Vuvalini, and an ailing Imperator. He glances at Furiosa again and sees her watching him. She doesn’t believe it either. She’s worried.

 

The sudden hiss and whir of machinery breaks the silence and he spins around, alarmed.

 

“It’s just the cisterns,” Furiosa’s calming voice cuts through the panic.

 

He squints at the far end of the room and sees that there in the darkness are huge pumps and cisterns, and as he looks down at his feet he realizes the floor is made up of mesh grates that suspend them over a huge pool of water. He looks up in surprise.

 

“This room’s a work in progress,” Capable explains, seeing his confusion. “Joe used to pump all the water up here just so he could pour it back down on the people once in a blue moon. He had a liking for theatrics. So it’s really just up here because this is where the balcony is.”

 

He gets up and walks out into the sun, peering over the edge of the cliffside to watch the water trickling down the rock further below.

 

“It’s totally impractical,” Dag continues. “The Repair Boys are working on plans to put pumps in closer to the ground so people can just access it there.”

 

“Although it’s handy to have it all stockpiled up here and not easily accessible from the ground, if there’s a siege,” Toast cuts in.

 

“This is starting to sound like a council meeting,” Cheedo grumbles, rubbing her temples.

 

“There are a lot of decisions to be made,” Furiosa explains, for Max’s benefit. “And a lot of different opinions on the best way to go about it.”

 

“The council meets in here?” Max asks, looking around at the minimal space.

 

“No, we just like it in here because it’s bright, and it’s the only place you can really get air, and it’s cool near the water,” Capable replies.

 

“The council meets in the vault,” Dag finishes.

 

“Where Joe used to lock up his prize possessions,” Toast explains when Max doesn’t understand.

 

He nods; he can see why they would prefer to gather elsewhere, even if this room isn’t exactly built for the purpose. In being built like a fortress, the Citadel is secure and impenetrable, but also dark and suffocating. In his limited experience of the mountains, he’s seen precious few spaces that are as light and easy to breath in as the rooms up here. He dreads having to go back down below when the women go to their meeting. The scorching sun on his sand-hole is preferable.

 

Capable rises to her feet. “Speaking of the meeting, we should probably head in. It’s better if we’re already there when the others arrive.”

 

They file out into the neighbouring room, where he can see a thick mist of water and a lot of green. Must be the hydroponics room. He shifts his weight awkwardly; unsure of where to go; where he fits in this space; if he can even handle being here for so long. He looks up to find Furiosa watching him.

 

“I wanna show you something,” she says quietly.

 

* * *

**Furiosa**

 

“Thought you had a meeting?”

 

“They can wait a few minutes.”

 

She likes to make them wait to show she’s in charge; to make an entrance. But she’s also worried about leaving Max alone in the dark with his demons. She understands what an extraordinary effort it took just for him to come in here. He follows her out of the room, into the explosion of green and mist. She watches the astonishment on his face at so much new life.

 

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she whispers conspiratorially.

 

She leads him to another hallway, and then an elevator, and then after ten minutes of going up, when it seems like there can’t be any mountain left above them, the elevator stops and she steps out, beckoning for him to follow her. There’s an access hatch above them and when she pushes it open, bright sunlight and fresh air stream through. Clambering out they are suddenly surrounded by green. He looks around, amazed; it’s like a forrest. Tall wide tubes stretch up towards the sun with little plants poking out of holes in the sides. He frowns at the leaves of the plant closest to him like it looks familiar. Flat oval leaves in clusters of three, with bright ruby fruit the shape of hearts. Furiosa leans past him and pulls at the fruit with her thumb and forefinger, handing to him. He gingerly puts it in his mouth and bites down. His eyes go wide as the exquisite sweet flavour fills his mouth.

 

“Strawberry,” Furiosa tells him, smiling. “We used to grow them in the Green Place. I haven’t seen one since I was a child. Didn’t even know Joe had any up here.”

 

She leads him further into the jungle of green. “These are cucumbers,” she points to the vines that twist across the ground,  “And squash. Over there are tomatoes. And peppers, and eggplant. No root vegetables- the soil’s not great. Though the Repair Boys who know most about hydroponics seem to think there might be a way to purify the soil; get the salt out. But for now these plants need mostly sun and water, and we’ve got plenty of those.”

 

They’ve reached the edge of the field of green and the beginning of the cliff drop. A lookout station is built into the edge of the cliff, and she sits to dangle her legs over the edge, waiting for him to ease himself down next to her, their shoulders brushing together. She points across to one of the other peaks. “Over there we’ve got corn, and barley, and wheat.” She points at the remaining peak, “And over there are peas and beans; more different types of beans than I even knew existed.”

 

She tries to keep the excitement in her voice. It’s full of hope, and she can see it having an effect on him because here among all this green, with the air fresh and light in their lungs and the sun on their faces, she knows he can’t help but want to believe.

 

She’s been coming up here often, when she needs some peace and quiet, to listen to the rustle of the leaves in the breeze and smell the plants and the wet dirt. She’ll lie down among the tall green fronds and looks up at the blue sky and it’s quiet. She could almost be home; back in the Green Place. It’s the only place in this whole cursed mountain she feels safe.

 

She suddenly becomes aware of him staring at her. “What?”

 

He shakes his head, dismissing it as nothing, but responds gruffly, “I’ve just never seen you smile before.”

 

She didn’t realize she was. She looks at him sharply, trying to hear the judgement in his words, like when he told her hope was a mistake and if you couldn’t fix what was broken, you’d go insane. She’d felt his judgement harshly then and his words had stung her already broken heart. But now she wonders if it wasn’t a warning from his own bitter experience. _Don’t become like me._ When he suggested coming back here her head knew it was their best shot but her heart screamed _no_ at the thought of returning to the place she’s yearned to escape since she was a child. It had been a huge leap for him to suggest they hope; it went against everything he’d ever known. But here they were, so close to having the life she barely dared to dream of. So close to fixing what was broken. And she can see in the clarity of his gaze that it’s fixing him too.

 

When she speaks again her voice is soft; she’s afraid of jinxing it. “If we can keep this? If we can get through the next few weeks? We can do well here. We can have a future.”

 

She smiles weakly as she meets his eyes, knowing what a longshot that is. They barely made it back; that was miracle enough. But to outlast the returning war parties and whoever’s left at the Bullet Farm and Gastown?

 

“How long do you think? Before they get here?” he asks gently, like he’s unwilling to shatter her dream.

 

She shakes her head, looking out to the east. There’s nothing to be seen even from their vantage point; just miles of desert and then a wall of mountains.

 

“A week maybe? ‘Til the war parties make it back to Gastown and the Bullet Farm. They’ll be in bad shape, and I don’t know how much either city has left in the way of water and food. I was supposed to bring their shipment a week ago. But they’ll probably have something put away. Enough to refuel. And they’ll have plenty of ammunition, and war machines.”

 

“And what about your supplies?”

 

“Not the worst; we have bullets, though they’ll be used up fast. The war party took only what they could carry; they weren’t bringing all the stores with them. We don’t have much guzzoline but it’s not like we’re planning on going anywhere. And we have some vehicles; old stuff mostly; retired. The Repair Boys are trying to get them back into working order.”

 

“You have food and water; you can wait them out,” he responds before he can stop himself. Hope is infectious.

 

She nods. “That’s the plan. This place is a fortress. If we can bring everyone inside, we could last weeks. Assuming they don’t just blow us all to hell. This place is only rock after all.”

 

“And what about this Corpus Colossus guy?”

 

“Joe’s son,” she explains. “He’s locked up in his rooms. Not much of a threat while we keep him contained and out of sight, but people know he’s still alive, and it’s inspiring some of the zealots. He could be useful though, if we can get him to cooperate."

 

“What do you need from me?”

 

The question is so open and ingenuous that she thinks she might cry with relief and she doesn’t say anything for a long time, looking back out at the desert til she can trust herself to speak.

 

“Right now, I could really use some backup with the council. There’s a lot of planning to be done, and we’ve got representatives from the Milking Mothers, the Repair Boys, and the encampments. Plus the sisters. These people don’t know war. And the members of the council who do… well, I don’t trust them. I think they’d turn us all over to the war parties as soon as the wind changes.”

 

She eyes him carefully, sizing him up. Whatever he was before he became like this, he has a lot of useful knowledge. He can drive like a demon, he can fight, aim well, load and shoot all manner of weaponry, manage minor repairs, fix broken bodies, keep his head in a crisis, give and take orders. She wonders if maybe he was military once, or law enforcement; his jacket resembles  those worn by the Main Force Patrol, from what she can vaguely remember. He could have picked it up somewhere along his travels but the fierceness with which he reclaimed it from Nux suggested a stronger emotional attachment. She doesn’t remember much about them, except that they were trying to restore order when things started to really fall apart, until they became part of the disorder themselves. Trying to fix what was broken and failing and surviving only to go insane. She wonders if he could be convinced to stay here, to be her second. If he wouldn’t be too scared of losing it again.

 

“You seem like you have some experience with all this,” she offers vaguely, and he nods in acknowledgement. “And just having someone else in the room who I trust would be… a big help.”

 

He seems to mull this over for a while. The fact that he doesn’t shoot her down immediately is reassuring, but it’s clearly an effort to reconcile himself with the idea that he could signing up to add more ghosts to the ones who already scream at him, should he fail. But what’s the alternative; leave Furiosa to carry this by herself? She’s been carrying everyone for days now, and she knows he sees the strain is wearing on her. For a while, in the back of the Gigahorse, he was himself again, or so she imagined. She’d allowed herself to slip into unconsciousness as he barked orders and moved quickly around her, knowing that he had things under control. She needs to have that assurance again.

 

“Ok,” he says finally.

 

She sighs, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  
“Ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love, folks! Comments and feedback are always gratefully appreciated :)


	4. Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mammoth update! There's a lot of dialogue and exposition, so I hope that's ok. I prefer internal monologues but I hope I struck a good balance here. Hope you enjoy!

**Max**

When Dag referred to the council rooms as the ‘vault’, she wasn’t kidding. Though the heavy iron door is off its hinges now, he can see that it had previously sealed the entrance to a room with walls at least ten feet deep. The door is now a mess of nuts and bolts; pieces strewn all over the floor. For a moment he assumes it was pulled apart in anger; one of the Sisters deconstructing a symbol of their imprisonment. But on second glance the breakdown is too methodical, and it doesn’t make sense that the Sisters would spend so much time painstakingly stripping it down. Maybe the pieces will be used for parts, and the metal melted down? He frowns at it, looking closer and realizing the purpose just as Furiosa speaks.

“The Repair Boys are switching the mechanism around so it’ll lock from the inside.”

“Smart,” he agrees. If this thing really does end up in a siege, and the war parties take the Citadel, there’s probably no safer place to be.

“How many can you fit in there?”

“A hundred, maybe more,” she replies, leading him through the tunnel and inside to bright light and fresh air. “There’s water, and the oxygen in here is pure.”

He can tell; already his breathing comes easier. Makes sense that Joe would want his wives breathing good air; there are many things on this scorched planet contributing to the disease and death that’s all around them, but a good amount of them are airborne. Not the kind of thing you want to push straight into the bloodstream of your unborn children if you want them to come out with the regular number of fingers and toes, and all in the usual places. For a second he thinks of Angharad’s baby, and wonders what it would have been like if it had lived. If _she_ had lived. He pushes the thought away quickly, knowing how quickly that path leads to guilt and grief and then visions and screaming. He needs to stay in the present.

He steps out into the sunlit room behind Furiosa. It’s huge; definitely enough room for a hundred people. Light streams down from the vaulted glass ceilings and he can see green all around outside; the crops must be planted all over the side of the mountain, not just at the top. Anywhere with good soil, he supposes, and high enough to be kept away from grabby hands. A large table sits at one end of the room, and around it a gathering of maybe eighteen people who all turn to look at them as they approach.

Furiosa’s demeanor changed markedly as soon as she entered the room, her face becoming a mask, chin up, shoulders squared, eyes level and calm. She moves unhurriedly, with that familiar air of practiced indifference and careful deliberation. Only once he’d seen her falter; after the blow of hearing that the Green Place was gone. It wasn’t her howl of grief and rage that had unsettled him; that kind of emotion was understandable. It was when she came to him after, speaking softly, arms wrapped around herself, head down, looking away. She came to offer him the world--or what was the world for them, in a place like this. A roadworthy bike, and a good one too, fully loaded with supplies. _You’re more than welcome to come with us…?_ Her vulnerability scared him. He could see her walking down the same path that had broken him. He’d said no; too abruptly he knew, and he’d hurt her. He’d tried to fix it, to explain. _If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll go insane._ He wasn’t sure she’d understood his cryptic message, but he couldn’t make it any plainer; didn’t dare say the words.

This Furiosa is defiant, which is infinitely better than vulnerable and broken, but still a world away from the openness and calm he’d seen in the forest of green above them when a ghost of a smile played on her lips. Maybe he’d glimpsed a little of Furiosa the Vuvalini; as she would have been if she was never taken.

“Nice of you to join us, Furiosa,” a large, bald-headed man with sores on his scalp calls tersely as they approach.

One of Joe’s inner circle, Max surmises. He’s well fed, and comparatively well-dressed, with a few tokens of finery on prominent display; horn-rimmed glasses (he hadn’t seen functioning sight aids in many years), a silk scarf tucked in his breast pocket, and a silver pocket watch which he consults now as he regards Furiosa irritably. Probably a moneyman of some kind, Max decides, given the heavy leather-bound book open in front of him, scrawled with numbers. He probably kept track of Joe’s merchandise and his trades, and what was owed to him. A useful man to keep at the table, and he doubts Furiosa has allowed anyone but the most useful of the old regime to stay.

“Thank you for waiting,” she responds evenly, moving to her seat.

“Who’s this?” a squat, broad man eyes Max warily. Another of Joe’s men. He’s cleaner than the rest--cleaner than anyone Max has seen in the Citadel, and he holds himself in such a way that suggests he’s trying hard not to touch anything. He must have something to do with medicine or health, Max guesses.

“This is Max, he’ll be joining us today,” she says in a tone that indicates she shouldn’t be questioned on this.

The Sisters are sitting at the far end of the table, to Furiosa’s right. They look tightly wound and deeply uncomfortable, Toast sitting ramrod straight, Cheedo curled towards Dag, Capable seeming to project an air of calm but her nervous fingers give her away. It must be hell for them to come back into this room, and to sit at a table with men who were at the very least complicit in their imprisonment. He’s struck again by their bravery. The men seem completely unperturbed; all dressed like bureaucrats with various elements of old-world status; a waistcoat or a suit jacket; a necktie or a watch.

“You were in the courtyard; at the riot,” the squat man squints at Max, placing him at last. “You took down that War Boy.”

“You can’t bring your bodyguard into a council meeting, Furiosa,” the moneyman chastises her.

“Max was with us on the War Rig,” Capable cuts in, her tone acrid. “He helped us defeat Joe. He helped us get home.”

“Ah yes, I remember you now. You drove the Gigahorse. Threw Joe’s body to the Wretched.” There’s something menacing and vaguely mocking about the moneyman’s tone.

“I don’t know him, I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him,” the squat man pronounces.

“Well we do so he’s staying,” Toast snaps.

His presence seems to have set a spark in a room that was already like a tinderbox; the Sisters snarling defensively; Joe’s men reeking of entitlement; Repair Boys siding with the Sisters; confused War Boys unsure of whose side to take; and others he can’t place adding their voices to the fray. Their clamoring gets louder and more cacophonous until the sensory overload gets the better of Max and he finds himself staring at Angharad’s words screaming at him on the walls, _We are not things_ and _Who killed the world?_ , and he shakes his head hard as the visions start to come. He feels a hand soft and cool on his arm and a voice cuts into the haze.

“Hey.”

It’s quiet again. There’s just Furiosa’s keen blue eyes focused on his. She indicates the chair next to hers, and he moves to sit, aware of the council members’ eyes on him.

The moneyman snorts derisively. “Great, he’s a bloody lunatic.”

“ _Schlanger_ ,” Dag hisses at him as the Sisters glare.

Furiosa ignores them, turning to Max to calmly introduce the members of the group. “This is Eva and Sofia--they were Milk Mothers under Joe’s rule. Now they manage the Pups. Jonas and Sallah are the representatives for the encampments around the Citadel. Clutch and Rev are Repair Boys. Lazer and Fitz represent the War Boys,” she reached the four men who are clearly left over from the old regime. “That’s The Bookkeeper, Joe’s treasurer; Meecham dealt with the neighbouring cities; Ackerman was the architect of the Citadel; and Smith is a scientist--he tests the blood, air, and soil,” she points to the squat man last.

He listens diligently, trying to stay present and absorb all the new faces staring at him curiously. He feels on display, like a lump of meat at a butcher; everyone sizing him up. Furiosa quickly calls the meeting to order, allowing him to slide into the background with relief.

“Shall we get started?”

“An excellent suggestion,” The Bookkeeper flicks through the pages of records in front of him and runs his large finger over the numbers. “The ration stores took a hit this morning, but by my calculations we still have enough to continue on as planned. Things will get tight towards the end of the month if you insist on continuing to feed the Wretched--”

“That’s not in question,” Capable cuts in, and the two representatives of the encampments snarl at him bitterly.

“As I say,” he goes on, unfazed, “we should be able to continue as planned. The water in the tanks is diminishing, though not at an alarming rate. Having the pipes flowing constantly down to the pool you have set up is not a good longterm solution. But as we’re not thinking longterm survival here, we won’t worry about that right now.”

Max watches the Sisters exchange nervous glances at the man’s thinly veiled barb. He could see Furiosa was right; they have big plans. But they are not ready to face the immediate threat, or to admit that all their hope for the future is precarious at best.

“Now, onto more pressing matters; ammunition inventory. As I’m sure you’re aware, we do not have many bullets. When the war parties return, we won’t win in a gun fight. We were due for restocking from the Bullet Farm last week, but for obvious reasons that didn’t happen,” he gives Furiosa a significant look, but she remains impassive. “Likewise we are low in guzzoline, so no flamethrowers. What we _do_ have, is nitro, and grenades. We always run out of the bullets first, but we always have bombs.”

“We’ve got some ideas for those!” one of the Rev volunteers enthusiastically. “A minefield, all around the Citadel. Only one safe way in. We can use the sand holes from the encampments closest to the Citadel now everyone’s moved inside.”

“But everyone _hasn’t_ moved inside yet, right Jonas?” Cheedo notes.

One of the representatives from the former-Wretched nods. “Probably about a quarter of the population from the encampments closest to the Citadel are still on the ground. Most folks are further out in the Wastes though--they’re more independent. They just come in to trade and for water.”

“Well lets get them inside then!” Meecham, a surprisingly scrawny man, explodes irritably.  
  


“There’s limited space,” Capable responds with infinite patience. “We’re moving people as fast as we can.”

“We need to move faster,” Furiosa responds, earning her an affronted look from Capable. Her words are harsh but she’s right, Max thinks. The Sisters don’t have her sense of urgency, and it’s clearly becoming a problem. “Jonas, Sallah, can you get people organized so we can move them inside tonight?”

“Tonight?” Capable exclaims. “We’ve got no where to put them!”

“Ackerman, can we free up some space?” Toast asks the fourth of Joe’s men.

He strokes his straggly white beard languidly, mulling the question over. “Depends,” he responds finally. “How many are we talking?”

“Maybe a few hundred that actually want to come inside,” Jonas responds. “A lot will likely join the encampments further out. They don’t want to be right in the middle of the fighting.”

“We should be able to squeeze a few more in with the Mill Rats in Tower Three,” Ackerman suggests. “Not hundreds though.”

“Well there must be room in Tower Two,” Capable interjects. “So many of the War Boys are gone, and the mechanics and medics have mostly moved over into Tower One with us.”

“There are concerns of course with having the Wretched living so close to the food stores, Ackerman responds. “That’s why those who come up from the encampments have always lived over in Tower Three. There needs to be enforceable limitations on access.”

“The point is to have us all be equal,” Capable counters. “No one holding the keys and the rest of us to ransom.”

“Well that’s a lovely dream, dear,” The Bookkeeper responds in a voice dripping with condescension. “But in reality, we have rationing in effect. Running a city involves a bit more than holding hands and singing Kumbaya.”

“I’m aware of that,” Capable’s tone is stealy. “But we can’t improve things if we build restrictions back in from the beginning. We need to be careful about everything we do now because these are the foundations for the future.”

“And there won’t _be_ a future if we don’t get those mines into the ground!” Lazer chimes in. “The war parties can’t be more than a few days out by now, and there’s nothing at all to stop Gas Town or Bullet Farm from heading on down the road tomorrow and killing the lot of us to claim this city for themselves!”

“Get your people inside. Tonight,” Furiosa cuts in, addressing Jonas. “Wherever they can fit.”

He nods. Max glances at the Sisters. Cheedo and Dag look defiant, Capable looks furious, and Toast is looking at The Bookkeeper with unveiled disgust. It’s hard to watch them. He’s done all this before, a long, long time ago; tried to start anew, full of big plans. Full of hope. He’s seen it all fail in the most horrific ways, more than once. He’s seen cities and encampments and societies all over the Waste, struggling for a better life, clawing their way towards civilization. It never ends well. He thinks of all that green growing above them, and tries to recapture that feeling of potential. _If we can keep this? If we can get through the next few weeks? We can do well here. We can have a future._ He knows it’s what’s driving Furiosa; she’s just focusing on surviving long enough to see these plans come to fruition. She’s just as full of hope as the Sisters; the only difference is she knows how thin a thread that hope is hanging from.

The Vuvalini are reporting on their training with the War Boys, trying to improve their aim. Apparently the general MO of war is to spray bullets as liberally as possible, and when that fails, throw a lance. There’s no precision, and that’s what’s badly needed when bullets are scarce. Mara says they’re improving slowly, and they’ve found a good crew they think are promising shots, having dismissed the rest as lost causes, so as to conserve ammo. Jonas and Sallah have identified a pretty good-sized group from the encampments who are good shots too.

“We won’t have anything left to shoot with if you keep using up all the bullets on target practice,” The Bookkeepper complains.

“All the bullets in the world aren’t worth a damn if you can’t hit the wide side of a rhino!” Mara snaps back. “Would you rather they waste them in war and then die, or use them now and then actually hit something in the field?”

“Thank you, Mara,” Furiosa cuts the argument short. She sounds tired. “What about vehicles? Clutch?”

“We’ve been pulling scrap off the roads all week,” he responds. “Been tough cos we’re getting into Buzzard territory, and they’ve likely stripped most of the stuff that was left on their patch. But we’ve reclaimed some nice stuff. Been polishing up our old machines; making ‘em shiney.”

“How many?” Furiosa asks.

“A fleet of twenty. Eight bikes, ten pursuit vehicles, a couple of big rigs. But we’re modding them so we can load them up heavy with firepower.”

“Get creative,” Furiosa nods, and the Repair Boys look at her like she’s just told them they can have the sun.

“Can you organize more scavenging parties to go out into the desert, see what else we can bring back?” she turns to Sallah and Jonas now.

Jonas nods as the woman next to him responds, “Like they say, it’s getting dangerous now, moving towards Buzzard territory. But if we take a few War Boys on the hauler, we should be able to keep them at bay long enough to do a few raids.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Sallah” Capable her, just as The Bookkeeper begins to protest the potential waste of ammunition on a scrap-run.

Toast cuts him off. “How many healthy War Boys do we have now?”

“Fight-ready?” Lazer asks. “Maybe twenty. Probably thirty more who can fire a gun but not much else.”

“They’re not getting guns,” the other Vuvalini, Abey, interjects with a derisive snort, making her opinion of their marksmanship clear.

The Lazer gives her a dirty look before continuing, “There’s more in the cells, too. Boys we’ve pulled off the road in the last few days; fell early in the battle but they’re ok, just in need of food and water. Plus the ones that came at you this morning.”

“Well we can’t arm any of them,” Toast responds.

“Some of them might come around,” Capable offers. “Especially if we got Colossus on-side.”

“How likely dyou think that is?” Dag interjects. “Guy’s been locked in his room all week, refusing to eat.”

“I’d say he’s probably just about hungry enough to make a deal,” Smith responds. “And he has some fairly intensive health requirements that won’t have been met in the last week. I think life has probably become quite uncomfortable for him.”

“Besides, he won’t want the Bullet Farm or Gas Town claiming the Citadel,” Meecham adds. “Joe had strong alliances with both but he knew they’d take the city from him first chance they got. Colossus knows this too; he’s no fool.”

Capable nods. “We’ll speak with him. Meecham, I’d like you to be there.”

He nods benevolently.

“That still only gives us around forty War Boys,” The Bookkeeper looks up from his scribbling, “even counting the sick and the disloyal. We sent out two hundred with the war party, plus those contributed from Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. What about the Pups?”

“The children don’t fight.”

Max turns to look at Sofia. The Milk Mothers have been largely silent so far, but now they have all eyes on them and they look like they’re daring someone to question them.

“Agreed,” Capable responds firmly.

“Some of them are great shots,” Abey protests.

“They’re children,” Capable responds, horrified. “We are not asking children to kill people.”

“They’re _War_ Pups,” Mara corrects her. “And children grow up fast when they’ve got no choice. Know how old  I was when I first held a rifle? Ten. Know how old I was when I first used it to shoot somebody? Ten.”

“No,” Capable repeats emphatically.

“At least some of the older boys!” Mara reasons. “They’re practically War Boy age.”

Max’s gaze returns to Furiosa as they bicker. She looks torn. He wonders how old she was when a Vuvalini first put a rifle in her hands. He wonders how many people she’d shot before she was taken. How old would she have been? He’s long lost the ability to approximate people’s ages, but he thinks they must be close in age. She said she’d been gone from the Green Place for 7,000 days, plus the ones she didn’t remember. That means she could have been in her teens when she was taken. She called herself a child though. He watches her watching the Sisters, a pained expression on her face. They look like children to him. Twelve is still a child. Fourteen is still a child. The War Pups are all children, even the oldest ones.

“Leave the Pups for now,” Furiosa says finally, and the Sisters look relieved, like they were expecting her to arrive at a different conclusion.

“Well then let’s at least save the blood transfusions for the people who are actually fighting, stop wasting it on the Pups,” Smith says decisively.

“We’ve got so much donated blood though!” Cheedo protests. “The Blood Tax--”

“Yes you might as well scrap that,” he cuts in. “Most of it’s useless. Everyone’s sick! Where do you think the Pups and War Boys come from? The Wretched. They’ve all got the same sickness. Anyone healthy would have been snapped up long ago, hung up and bled in the cells.”

Max flinches at the description, but he steals his nerves as Furiosa shoots him a sidelong glance.

“We’re attracting more desert-dwellers from further out in the Wastelands since the water was made readily available, so we’ve got some usable samples there” he continues. “And we might actually have more luck with the Repair Boys. Some of them are full-lifes.”

“Yeah well we’ve been thinking about that,” Clutch volunteers nervously, wary of being designated a bloodbag. “Some of the Repair Boys can fight. There a lot of us have thought of enrolling as War Boys before. It’s not just half life Pups who get promoted to War Boy. Nux was a Black Thumb. They let him sign up for War because he was a half-life. They never let the full-life mechanics go though--too valuable to lose in war, I guess.”

He says the words like it’s occurring to him for the first time. Max supposes he’d only ever seen it as an injustice before; not being allowed to do war. He’d never considered it was because his skills were valuable.

Just then a Pup hurtles into the room at breakneck speed, skittering to a halt and then backing up like he overshot and is worried about bursting in uninvited.

“What is it, Oscar?” Eva asks encouragingly.

“Signal from Gas Town!” he responds breathlessly, staring wide-eyed at Furiosa.

Max feels her tense beside him.

“What signal?”

“They’ve run out of water. They want to make peace and trade with us. They said they have bullets, too.”

A rumble goes around the table as the council absorbs this news.

“It’s gotta be a trap,” Fitz says.

“Perhaps,” The Bookkeeper muses. “But perhaps not. They’ve gone a week without fresh water. They might be getting desperate.”

“Desperate for us to drive out them with supplies so they can pick us off and take it from us,” Abey mutters darkly.

“Can we afford not to find out though?” Meecham asks. “If they agree to lay down arms, that’s one less front we’ll be fighting on. We can replenish our ammunition, and we’ll be safe in the knowledge that at least one third of the remaining war party won’t be heading to our door. And if we have Gas Town on side, the Bullet Farm will surely follow.”

“We might not even need to fight…” Jonas says tentatively.

“Diplomacy,” Meecham declares. “Much as Joe loved war, he knew the value of savvy negotiation as well. How do you think we gained Gas Town and the Bullet Farm as allies in the first place?”

“Clearly our chances at war are not good,” Smith adds.

“People Eater’s gone,” Dag says slowly. “They’ve lost their leader. They might be a mess over there.”

“Who sent the signal?” Toast asks Oscar.

“Grit.”

“He’s in charge now?” Furiosa asks as the Pup nods confirmation. “I know him. He was the People Eater’s right hand. He managed the trades. He’s older; a full life. I’m not surprised he was left behind to manage things when the war party went out.”

“Do you trust him?” Cheedo asks.

“I don’t trust any of them,” she responds. “But I think he could be bargained with.”

“So we send out a crew,” Toast suggests. “Water, food, and a few support vehicles.”

“We can’t spare any war-ready machines, and we definitely don’t have enough War Boys,” The Bookkeeper responds, shaking his head. “We’d be leaving the Citadel wide open to attack. What if the war parties should arrive while our defenses are all the way over at Gas Town? What if it’s their intention to draw us out?”

“So we meet on the road,” Furiosa responds. “We signal Gas Town to meet halfway, and I’ll take the supplies out. If it looks suspect, I’ll run straight out of there.”

“ _You_ can’t go, Furiosa,” Ackerman interrupts.

“I do the supply runs. I have a rapport with Grit. He knows me; and I know their crew; I know what to expect. I’ll know if something’s off.”

“No, it can’t be you,” Mara agrees, looking deeply uncomfortable that she’s siding with Joe’s men. “We need you here. If things go south out there, it can’t be your life on the line. Half these boys are only on our side because of you.”

“And you’re injured,” Dag adds.

“Everyone’s injured,” Furiosa counters.

“Not everyone has a giant hole in their side,” Dag responds, having none of it. “You were practically dead a few days ago; you’re not in any shape to run into a fight.”

The tension Max noted in the room from the beginning has increased dramatically. The council appears to operate as some kind of advisory group, but who are they advising? Furiosa keeps hanging back, acting more like a general than a leader, and letting Capable and Toast take the reins. But she still seems to get the final say on everything, because the others don’t know war. And the downside of being the only one who can lead in wartime is that you’re too valuable to lose.

“I wouldn’t be running into a fight.” she tries again. “If that’s the way it goes, I’d be running away from one. And no one can drive a rig like I can; I have the best shot at getting out of there…”

She trails off and he knows the realization has just hit her. That she’s not the only one who can do the supply run. That there’s someone else who can drive a rig fast enough to risk going out there. He knows she’s thinking it because she won’t look at him.

“I can do it,” he suggests.

Everyone turns to look at him.

“I drove the War Rig across the Wastes. And driving is what I do. I used to drive pursuits. There wasn’t anyone faster than me.”

There’s a murmur of approval from Joe’s men. Furiosa closes her eyes.

“You couldn’t have any backup,” Meecham says. “You’d be on your own out there.”

He nods. He’s used to that.

“No,” Capable speaks up. “ _No way_. We are not sending Max out on a suicide mission.”

“It might be a peace offering,” The Bookkeeper shrugs.

“Furiosa, no.” Capable turns her attention to the other woman, looking for backup.

Furiosa is studying the table. She still hasn’t looked at Max, and won’t meet Capable’s eyes.

“ _Furiosa_ ,” Capable repeats, alarmed.

She turns to look at him finally. Her eyes are filled with resignation. He knows she has to say yes, so he’s making it as easy as he can for her. He holds her gaze and gives her a nod of encouragement.

“Do we have a rig?” Her question is aimed at the Repair Boys, but she doesn’t look away from Max.

“Furiosa!” Capable shouts in horror as Dag and Cheedo join with her in loudly raising their objections.

“Yeah,” Clutch confirms, looking at the Sisters uncertainly. “It needs some more work, but we’ve got one.”

“How soon can it be ready?”

“Maybe tomorrow if we work through the night.”

“All in favour of sending Max to Gas Town?” The Bookkeeper calls the vote.

Over half the hands slowly go up. The Sisters don’t move.

“Well, that’s decided then!”

Furiosa finally looks away from Max to address the War Boys.

“He gets the standard crew.”

Joe’s men start to raise their objections but she cuts them off loudly. “This is _not_ a suicide mission. He gets a crew. Two vehicles, two bikes, sixteen War Boys.”

“ _Eight_ War Boys,” The Bookkeeper interrupts. “And two assist vehicles only. There are thousands of people in this city who can barely stand up, never mind fight. We don’t want to leave them open to attack.”

“I’ll put a crew together,” Lazer nods.

* * *

**Furiosa**

Furiosa leaves the council meeting more exhausted than usual, and full of doubt. It would have been easier to risk her own life. She’s the one who always does the supply runs; she drives the rig; she’d outrun three war parties for three days in her machine. It’s not that she doubts Max can do it; she’s seen him drive. But she’s deeply uncomfortable with the idea that her life has become something that it’s important to preserve, to the detriment of others. She’s always been a soldier, part of a team. A leader of a team, maybe. But no more or less worthy of life than anyone else on her crew. And when she’d made the decision to run, to betray her crew on the War Rig, she still wasn’t acting for herself; she was protecting the Sisters. For redemption.

She and Max had fought side by side for that aim; to get them home; to give them their best shot. Max had put his life on the line just as she had; they both knew the risks, and the cost. Now she’s somehow removed from that equation, and he has to bear to risk on his own. He has to drive out into the desert, into what is quite possibly a death trap, so that she doesn’t have to.

And he didn’t even question it. Just this morning she’d thought he was long gone; that he’d left them to go his own way. Now he’s so far back on their team he’s willing to risk everything for a hope and a dream she’s not even sure he believes in.

“Furiosa!”

Capable is behind her; she knew the woman wouldn’t give up so easily.

“You can’t send him out there!”

“I’m not sending him, he volunteered,” Furiosa corrects her gently but firmly. It might seem like an issue of semantics, but it’s important. This was Max’s choice; she’s going to respect that and not take away his agency.

“If you told him not to go, he wouldn’t,” Capable snaps back, still hot on her heels.

“Of course he would. I asked him to come with us across the salt and he didn’t. He came up with a whole different plan and turned us all around. He’s not going to do something he doesn’t think is a good idea.”

“A week ago he could barely even speak,” Capable fumes. “How is he going to negotiate?”

“He doesn’t have to negotiate. All he has to do is drive the rig.”

“And what if they decide to just shoot him and take the rig themselves?”

Furiosa keeps moving so Capable won’t see the conflict written all over her face; see her own fears confirmed there. She knows Grit; he’s always been respectful to her, but he’s sharp and wily, and there’s no longer an understanding between their two cities. Everything’s in flux, and he wouldn’t let something as sentimental as ‘honor’ stop him from beating an opponent. She’s hoping that he’s smart enough to see that an alliance is more beneficial to his people than a war.

“ _Furisoa, stop!_ ”

“Look” she rounds on Capable. “We cannot win a war, do you understand that? We cannot beat three war parties. If they come for us, this city will fall. We _have_ to find another way.”

She’s been too harsh; she knows it from the way Capable’s expression crumbles. She forces herself to turn away and continue on towards the signalling station. She can hear Toast running up behind them.

“Capable, let her go.”

“She can’t do this.”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Neither of them do--her or Max. They’re doing what they have to so we can survive. So we have a chance to rebuild.”

Furiosa sighs deeply and closes her eyes. Max had gone straight over to the mechanics rooms in Tower One when the council dispersed so she didn’t get a chance to talk to him. But what would she say? What he needs are details so they can plan, and for that she has to get across to the signaling station to negotiate with Grit. And she wants to check on the state of the rig, and see the crew that Lazer is putting together. The hallways and bridges feel even busier and more congested than usual as people move hurriedly about, clearing space for the remaining inhabitants of the encampments. They would all jump if she told them to. And yet she’s never felt less in control. There are too many moving pieces, too many lives, and too much that hangs in the balance. She’s a soldier, and an imperator, not a leader. She drives the rig; but now she can’t even do that.

It’s late by the time she makes it back across to the repair rooms. Bodies move around in a flurry of activity, the flames from the torches making the shadows leap around crazily.

She spots Max under the cab, working on the engines with Clutch and Rev.

“Hey,” she calls softly as she reaches him.

He ducks out from under the rig when he sees her, handing off his wrench to Rev and wiping his greased hands on a rag.

“You got a minute?”

He nods and follows her out into the hall where they can talk in private. It’s dark and cramped, forcing them to stand close together, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart around, instinctively looking for an exit. He must hate it in here. She takes him further down the hall to where the tunnel widens out and a shaft of moonlight breaks through the gloom from what might charitably be called a window.

“I spoke to Grit,” she explains. “He’s going to send his crew to half way along Fury Road at noon. You’ll drive out to meet them with two support vehicles. There shouldn’t be anything more than the standard crew coming to meet you: a few support vehicles, a rig, a few bikes. You see any more than that, you turn around and head straight back. Hang back when you get close to the meeting point, make sure everything looks right. If everything’s good, have your crew uncouple the tanker, and hook up the ammo. I know the boys Lazer has chosen; they’re good, and they’re loyal. They know the drill; you don’t have to do anything but watch out, and drive.”

He’s been watching her closely as she speaks, nodding along. He trusts her completely. She feels the weight of that trust heavy on her shoulders.

“Don’t cut the engine,” she continues. “Just leave it idling while you make the exchange. You can go from 0-100 pretty fast if you don’t have to start up the rig from cold and disarm the kill switch.”

He nods, “I remember.”

“Keep an eye on your mirror; we’ll signal if anything looks off from this end. The War Boys in the back know to keep an eye out.”

He nods again.

“Don’t take any risks. Trust your instincts; if something feels off, just get out of there.”

There’s not much else to say, and yet she feels the need to say something more. She wants to tell him he doesn’t have to do this, but she won’t insult him by questioning him. She looks away, at a loss.

“You want some help with the rig?” she asks finally.

“Sure.”

She follows him back to the mechanics’ rooms and scoots under the cab with him. Immersing herself in a task makes it easier not to think. How many hours had she spent losing herself in engines and grease and blowtorches over the years? How much of her soul had she poured into her vehicles so she didn’t have to think about who she was outside of her rig? The pieces of an engine all have specific homes; they fit together in a certain way; always the same. It’s meditative; comforting. She understands how a machine works, and when it’s broken she knows how to fix it. This is something she can control. Max seems completely present; his eyes clear as he passes her a wrench and then holds a piece of the engine in place while she works around him. They don’t speak; just focus on the task at hand.

It’s late into the night when she suggests he get some rest; leave the Repair Boys to finish up. She wonders if he’s slept in anything more than snatched hours over the past week, surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces; so much desperation; so much willingness to grab at anything he had if he let down his guard for a second. He follows her across to Tower One, but hesitates when they near her room.

“I can’t sleep in there,” he shakes his head, brow furrowed. “There’s no air down here.”

She nods, understanding. “I know a place.”

She takes him back up to the Green. She’s slept up here herself more than once. There’s a tool shed on the eastern side with a mound of sacks ready to fill at harvest time piled high against its outer walls. It’s not the most comfortable mattress, but she’s slept on worse, and she doesn’t doubt that Max has too. She climbs up onto the heap of cloth and settles back against the wall, looking out over the Wastes in the direction that the war parties should be coming from any day now. Max eases himself down next to her, and she pulls out some blankets she’d stashed up here, passing one to him. He swaddles himself against the chill night air. The temperature drops as soon as the sun goes down, but she still prefers it to the cramped airless caves.

They sit in silence for a while. It’s quiet but for the breeze rustling the leaves and the rapid _tick tick tick_ of the sprinklers. She closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of the sweet wet earth. The sound of boots crunching somewhere behind them makes Max start and look around wildly.

“It’s ok,” she says softly. “It’s just the night watch switching shifts.”

They watch a ghostly white figure moving through the forest of green, towards the watchtower to the east of them. He clambers up the metal frame with practiced ease, settling himself in his perch and taking out a scope.

Max seems to relax again, leaning back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with her. She fiddles with a loose screw on her metal arm. She should try and get some sleep but her mind won’t quiet. She keeps playing possible scenarios for tomorrow’s trade over and over in her head.

“Do you know what they’re called?” Max’s voice breaks through her thoughts. He’s looking up at the stars. “They used to have names,” he explains, seeing her quizzical expression. “People told stories about them; myths from thousands of years ago. I think there was a lion, and maybe a crab.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know about lions and crabs. But the Vuvalini had stories. My mother used to tell them to me when I was a child.”

“What stories?”

There’s a sense of easiness about him now that’s at odds with the precariousness of their situation; of the imminent danger in which he’s about to put himself. It’s like when he chased after them in the salt and told them his crazy plan to go back the way they came. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. And they’d done it; buoyed by his confidence the Sisters and the Vuvalini had piled back into the rig and set off speeding back towards the Citadel. She can feel his easiness creeping into her now; releasing the tension in her shoulders as she follows his gaze up to the clear night sky and lets her mind go far, far, back, to nights a long way from here, surrounded by green, wrapped in warm blankets, her mother’s voice soft in her ears.

She tells him what she can remember, which isn’t much at first. But the stories come easier after she gets the first few details; like opening the floodgates to a river of memories she thought were long gone. She talks for what seems like hours. She hasn’t talked this much since she first told Angharad about the Green Place, and she’s afraid to stop in case the memories slip from her grasp once more. She can almost taste the crispness of the air, and feel her mother’s fingers run through her hair, her soft voice clearer and more real than it has been in years.

When she’s run out of stories she falls silent, the even sound of Max’s breathing matching her own. She knows his eyes have never left her face as he listened with rapt attention.

“I didn’t even know I remembered all that,” she speaks again finally. “I haven’t been able to picture my mother clearly since I was a child.”

“Sometimes the things we don’t want to remember fill our heads so there’s no room for anything else,” Max responds slowly. “But it’s still there.”

She nods, wondering what memories his ghosts chase away from him, and if they come back when his eyes clear and he becomes present again.

They sit together in silence for a while. When she looks at him again his eyes are closed.

 **  
** She pulls her blanket around her more tightly, and waits for the dawn.


	5. Drive

** Max **

He sleeps in fits and starts, like he always does. The dreams start off ok but they always end the same way; with screaming and fire and blood. He dreams of the stars, of the stories Furiosa told him; he dreams of the night sky in the desert, looking out across the salt, the moon making everything look blue; he dreams of the satellites flying through the black like shooting stars and he makes a wish: that they’ll make it across the salt and find a new place to make green. That they can go forward and not back. But there’s no crossing the salt; there’s only going back the way they came. Back through three war parties. He dreams of the Vuvalini and the ways they died. He dreams of the ones he never saw fall, but who didn’t make it back; The Valkyrie and her riding companion--he doesn’t even know her name. He dreams of the Keeper of the Seeds, smiling softly in death but loud and furious in his head. He hears their screams and they turn into the screams of the Sisters as Angharad falls and disappears under the wheels; and then it’s not Angharad but the body of his child, and more screaming and more blood and more recrimination: _Where were you, Max? Why didn’t you help us?_

 

He starts up, ready to fight, or run, or both. Every time the night is quiet but for his ragged gasps. Furiosa sits beside him. Her voice is calm and soft. _It’s ok. Get some rest._ He doesn’t know if she sleeps at all, or if he keeps waking her with his shouts and flailing. He closes his eyes and slips back under, lost for a blessed while in a vision of a land filled with green, where stars shine brightly overhead in a cloudless sky.

 

Finally he wakes and the sun has broken across the horizon. Furiosa is gone. He makes his way over to the watchtower and looks out to the east. Still nothing to see but mountains; no angry clouds kicked up by a returning war party. There’s a flurry of activity down on the ground close to the Citadel. He signals the lookout.

 

“What’s going on?” he nods towards the Repair Boys moving about excitedly.

 

“Laying mines,” he explains. “They’ve evacuated the sand holes around the Citadel, so they’re all rigged to blow. No one’s getting within a hundred meters of this place without risking being blown sky-high.”

 

“That’s still pretty close,” Max observes. Close enough to retaliate.

 

“Yeah, they boys wanted at least a kilometer radius but there’s not enough nitro,” the lookout responds, disappointed.

 

Max heads back down into the mountain, and makes his way across to Tower Two and the mechanics’ rooms. He’s getting used to the maze of tunnels, recognizing landmarks the more frequently he travels from one tower to the next so it’s less intimidating to be in here. Less like being trapped. As he crosses one of the bridges between the towers he looks out over the Citadel’s courtyard. The platform is up and there’s no line for rations for once. No inhabitants of the encampments anywhere as far as he can see; the ones who aren’t inside and getting ready to fight must have made their way further out into the desert, away from the conflict. A few stragglers are gathered around the water pool, filling up scavenged receptacles and dragging them out into the Wastes on makeshift carts. They know if there’s a siege the water will stop flowing. The war parties aren’t the only ones who will have to wait out their thirst.

 

Furiosa is under the rig when he arrives, checking over the Repair Boys’ work. Clutch and Rev wait nervously closeby, and exchange enthusiastic headbuts when she nods her approval.

 

It’s nothing like the War Rig, but given that they pulled it out of retirement only a few days ago, it’s looking pretty impressive. Spikes that must have been recovered from Buzzard war machines adorn the front of the cab and lower sides. Lances are strapped with easy reach of the rear lookout perch, and the cab is mounted with a sniper's nest. No automatic weaponry; too much wasted ammo. Just good defense and reinforced hiding spots from which to take a good, clear shot. The tank itself just has some spikes and circular saws along its sides, much like the tank on the War Rig. The Repair Boys have saved the bulk of the defenses and weaponry for the truck itself, given that the tank will be sent off to Gas Town, assuming the exchange goes as planned. Just enough sharp objects to do some damage if things go south and the tank has to be used as a battering ram.

 

They’ve put a quick release in the cab too; he sits next to Furiosa as she shows him the sequence. One wrong switch flipped, and the whole rig will blow. The Gas Town boys won’t be able to uncouple the tank without him, and conversely he’ll be able to drop the dead weight in a hurry if they need to make a speedy exit.

 

Furiosa introduces him to his crew, reporting that they’ve all trained with the Vuvalini this week and are some of the Citadel’s best shots. They’re sombre as they nod respectfully to him. The fall of Imortan Joe and the collapse of their worldview has brought a gravity to war that had never existed for them before. There are no whoops and yells as they ride the pulley system down to the ground, following their war machines. Their jaws are set in grim determination. There’s no Valhalla; no walking eternal, shiney and chrome. This is about survival now,and they know that if the city falls, they all die. The trade with Gas Town is the first step in making sure that doesn’t happen.

 

He hopes that enough of Joe’s indoctrination is still embedded in their psyche so that the survival of the Citadel still outweighs their instinct for self-preservation. A deal with Gas Town going south is not the place he wants their resolve tested, but he doesn’t have much choice. He doesn’t trust them, but at least they know he’s the only one who knows the sequence to decouple the rig. If they decide to sell him out, they can’t just straight-up kill him.

 

It’s strange to have a crew; it’s been a long, long time since he lead a team. Even back in the days of the MFP, he usually worked alone. But he would have trusted his fellow officers to have his back. Now he wouldn’t trust anyone except maybe Furiosa.

 

“I should be going with you,” she says as they descend on the platform with the rig, like she’s reading his mind.

 

He shakes his head. “You’re needed here.”

 

She seems dissatisfied with this response but doesn’t say anything.

 

“Did you eat anything today?” she asks instead, and he can’t help the smile that forms on his lips. It’s been a while since he had anyone who cared if he ate.

 

“I’ll eat when I get back,” he responds, hoping a little bravado will ease the tension in her brow.

 

She nods, feigning confidence in return. It’s as much as they can do. There’s no words for a time like this. He might have known what to say once, back when he used to be able to express his emotions and he wasn’t just like a raw nerve, everything always too bright and too loud and endlessly terrifying. The calm he feels here is something to fight to preserve, that’s all he knows.

 

The Sisters haven’t had their emotions blunted yet though, and they run towards him now, having caught a ride down with the last of the war machines. Cheedo’s arms are around his neck before he can react, and Dag is soon clinging beside her.

 

“Ok, alright,” he says gruffly, patting them gently as he extricates himself from their heartfelt embrace.

 

Capable had the good sense to hang back and not dogpile on top of Cheedo and Dag, but she’s not letting Max go without a hug of her own. He gives her an awkward pat in return.

 

Only Toast keeps her distance, but he doesn't sense any anger in her aloofness any more. She gives him a nod before saying with confidence, “We’ll see you soon.”

 

He nods in agreement, before turning to the assembled War Boys. “Let’s move out!”

 

They jump to attention, taking their places as lancers, snipers, or drivers; revving engines. The Sisters wait by the platform, ready to bring up the drawbridge and lock down the Citadel.

 

“I’ll be watching,” Furiosa calls as he climbs up into the rig and begins the sequence to disable the kill switch. “Look for my signal.”

 

He nods as he hits go. Two thousand horsepower of nitro-boosted war machine growls to life under him. His assist vehicles tear out ahead of him as he steers the rig north towards the Fury Road. He watches Furiosa grow smaller and smaller in his wing mirror until she’s out of sight.

 

An eternity of hot empty desert stretches out ahead of him, so flat he can already see the meeting point though they’re still miles out. And beyond that, Gas Town; an inky smudge on the too-bright horizon, tall chimneys billowing plumes of black smoke into the clear blue sky. _Who killed the world?_ he hears Angharad demand.

 

He checks his wing mirrors, notes the flickering light of a signal from the Citadel, alerting Gas Town that their produce is en route.

 

A moment later a War Boy bangs on the hatch above his head and he slides it back.

 

“Gas Town boys are on the road,” he announces, scope in hand.

 

Nothing to do now but drive. Max runs his eye over the cab one more time to where he’s stashed his weapons; a handgun in the holster by his head, a sawn-off shotgun under the seat, a crossbow in the footwell. It feels like a lot of artillery to be taking out of the Citadel, considering how low they’re running. It’s necessary though, he reminds himself. This isn’t a suicide mission. He runs a hand over the gearstick, and on a whim grips the knob and pulls it upwards; it moves easily in his hand, unsheathing to reveal the blade hidden inside the lever. He smiles, wondering if that was a final touch from Furiosa.

 

The drive seems to last forever but it can’t be more than thirty minutes before Gas Town’s convoy comes into view.

 

“I count four assault bikes, four assist vehicles, and a big rig,” his lookout reports.

 

Max squints at the shimmering line of black in the distances, kicking up dust as they ride. That’s more than Furiosa had said to expect.

 

“That’s a little heavy for a supply run,” the War Boy calls, confirming his suspicions. “Not too concerning though.”

 

The whole situation is deeply concerning to Max, but if the War Boys aren’t worried, he won’t panic just yet. He grips the wheel a little tighter and shifts down a gear as they close on the meeting point. His assist vehicles pull up ahead of him, leaving a good two hundred meters between them and the slowing convoy from Gas Town. One is a slightly clunky-looking wagon, but the other is an interceptor like the one he used to drive. It was a pet project of one of the Repair Boys, lovingly restored and modded but not quite ready for war when Joe tore out into the desert after Furiosa. It can get up to 100 mph with much less leeway than they’re giving themselves here. In fact, the driver could just slam it in reverse, do a 180, and be tearing off back to the Citadel in five seconds flat, before the Gas Town boys even got their engines going. The wagon would have a harder time of it, and would need the buffer they’re giving themselves. But it’s the Rig that’s really going to prove difficult. Once it gets going, the war machine can really fly. But if he lets the Gas Town boys box him in, his only option is going to be charging them down and making hard left once he’s picked up a little speed, and then a slow arc in which he has to hope his assist vehicles can run interference so the Gas Town convoy doesn’t cut him off before he can get back on the road.

 

It would be easier to maneuver if he dropped the tank, but he doesn’t want to do that if he doesn’t have to. He’d rather not let a double-crossing Gas Town get away with a fresh supply of food and water if he can help it; it’ll just make the Sisters’ job of holding the Citadel harder if the enemy are resupplied.

 

Up ahead the Gas Town convoy grinds to a stop, keeping a wary distance. He stays in the cab, letting the engine idle as Furiosa had instructed. He unholsters his handgun. Above him he hears the War Boy in the sniper's nest cock the hammer of his rifle.

 

An assault bike with two riders slowly makes its way over from the Gas Town convoy. Max’s crew track their progress with their weapons until they pull alongside the interceptor. The driver wears a black leather mask and a thick metal chain with a scorched doll’s head as a medallion. His passenger stands up on the back of the bike to get a better look at the rig. He runs his eyes slowly over Max, calculating.

 

“Where’s Furiosa?” he asks finally.

 

“You didn’t ask for Furiosa,” Max replies steadily. “You asked for water.”

 

He considers this, before nodding and smiling menacingly. He is older than Max; maybe fifty. But he’s strong-looking, tall and solidly built. A scar runs across his left eye and down his cheek. This must be Grit.

 

Grit turns to the driver of the interceptor. “I know you, boy. You’ve done supply runs before. Blaze, right?”

 

The War Boy nods.

 

“So who’s this then?” he points towards Max.

 

“One of Furiosa’s men,” Blaze responds.

 

Grit lets out a short, mirthless laugh. “I thought you were all Furiosa’s men now?”

 

Max grinds his teeth with nervous tension as the War Boys exchange uncertain looks.

 

“We don’t belong to anyone,” the War Boy in the sniper’s nest finally responds with conviction, echoing the mantra Max has heard the Sisters trying to instill. “The Citadel belongs to us.”

 

“And yet here you are, out here, in the Wastes, all alone. What would stop me from just killing you  right now and taking your supplies?”

 

“Tank’s rigged to blow,” Blaze informs him, pointing towards Max. “Only he knows the sequence to disarm it.”

 

“We’re just here to trade,” Max interjects. “You led us to believe that’s what you wanted. You need water and food, we need guns and guzzoline. So, shall we do this?”

 

Grit lets his eye wander slowly across the assembled group, their weapons still trained on him. He gives Max a final hard look. Then he lets out a piercing whistle. Max’s hand clenches around the handle of his gun.

 

Two hundred meters away, Gas Town’s rig roars to life and begins rolling towards them, slowly closing the distance. It passes them before swinging around in a wide arc, pulling up level with Max’s rig. The driver shuts off the engine and his crew hop down and start decoupling their tank and fuel pod.

 

Grit grins broadly at him. “You tell Furiosa--she’s too suspicious. So long as the water keeps flowing, she has a friend in Gas Town.”

 

Max is far from convinced, but they’ve made their show of trust; now it’s his turn. He reaches under the dash to begin the sequence to disarm and decouple the tanker. His crew down the back jump down to start the switchover, chanting about trading aqua cola for bullets in that same call and response he’d heard while he sat curled up in a cage in the Organic Mechanic’s cells, waiting to be bled. He shakes his head as he feels the flashback creeping up on him; now is not the time to lose it.

 

The Gas Town boys start up their own call as they roll the water tanker over to their rig and start recoupling. He’s checking his wing mirror to watch the transfer of the ammo tank and fuel pod, when he notices the flashing light coming from the Citadel.

 

The signal sends only one word over and over:

 

 _Run_.

 

* * *

** Furiosa **

 

She went straight to the signal tower after the convoy left; eyes glued to the scope as she tracked their progress and the movements over at Gas Town. The Sisters wait behind her with their own binoculars, a nervous shadow. Mara stands at her side; Abey is up top on Tower Two with her group of snipers.

 

Max leaves a good distance between himself and the Gas Town convoy; that’s good, he’ll need some room to maneuver the rig if he has to run. She watches a bike make it’s way over from Gas Town’s side. It’s too far out to make out who it is. She’d described Grit to Max but she might have been describing any number of high-ranking war men; to someone unfamiliar they would all look the same. It might not even be Grit out there--what’s to say he hadn’t sent his own representative, as she had? The frustration of not knowing and not being out there, of being out of control, creeps up her spine and prickles at her neck so it’s all she can do to force herself to stand still when she feels like jumping out of her skin. Her bio-hand clenches and unclenches rapidly.

 

The convoys haven’t moved and Max’s crew are still on the rig. The lone bike is parked next to them, waiting. This is taking too long.

 

She turns to Fitz and says softly, “Get the fleet on the ground.”

 

“You want us to go after them?” he asks, frowning with concern.

 

She shakes her head. “I just want us to be ready.”

 

He doesn’t question, just nods, heading off to assemble the War Boys.

 

She doesn’t look at the Sisters but she feels their watchful eyes alternately on her and on the convoy in the desert.

 

There’s movement on the ground now; the Gas Town rig making its way towards the Citadel’s convoy, and the War Boys are jumping down and running to their places. The exchange seems to be underway, but that doesn’t mean her men will make it out of there.

 

“They’ve made the trade,” Capable says quietly behind her, like she can’t quite believe it actually happened as it was supposed to. The War Boys have the ammo tank and fuel pod and are getting it into position behind the war rig.

 

“Eyes left!” the lookout beside her suddenly calls.

 

She swings the scope around in the direction he’s pointing. At first there’s only miles of blank desert, but then she sees the dust.

 

“The war parties,” Cheedo whispers.

 

“They should have been coming from much further east?” Mara shakes her head.

 

“Not if they managed to clear the pass and came through the mountains,” Capable responds.

 

Furiosa spins back to the Fury Road where the exchange is still underway. No one seems any the wiser.

 

“Shall we signal our men, boss?” the sentry asks, awaiting orders.

 

“If we send a signal, the Gas Town boys will see it too,” Toast cautions.

 

Furiosa swings the scope back to the approaching war parties. They’re still a ways out; they won’t reach the road in time to intercept the convoys. But if Grit sees them coming, an alliance with the Citadel will definitely seem like less of an appealing option. He’ll kill them on the spot, resupply the war parties, and then they’ll all come for the Citadel. She has to alert Max, even if Grit sees it too.

 

“Send the signal,” she tells the sentry, and turns to leave, not waiting to watch the reception on the ground. “Get your snipers ready,” she calls to Mara. The Vuvalini is already running back to Tower Three.

 

“You need to lock down the Citadel,” she turns to Capable as she heads out the door.

 

“But you’ll be out there! So will the whole fleet!” Capable calls after her in panic.

 

“Lock it down!” Furiosa shouts in response, and runs for Tower Three and the elevator platform.

 

“Come on,” she hears Toast snap impatiently. They know the drill; shut off the water, seal off the walkways and bridges, snipers on the windows and mountain tops, doors up to protect the elevator system. No one goes in or out.

 

The fleet is mostly on the ground by the time she reaches the platform and catches a ride down with the last of the war machines. It’s a more intimidating sight than she had imagined a fleet of under twenty would be; the Repair Boys have done a great job working with the wreckages they managed to pull out of the Wastes. Many of them are mounting their vehicles now alongside the remaining War Boys, armed to the teeth with whatever lances and grenades they had left. Most of the guns remain in the Citadel with the snipers. They won’t outgun Grit’s convoy but the Citadel fleet will be bigger, assuming Gas Town doesn’t send their own reinforcements before they can reach the Max and his crew. If they do… she hopes the War Boy way of brute force will be enough to at least slow them down.

 

Her war machine is a boosted truck not unlike the one Joe used to drive; it’s not as fast as some of the lower pursuit vehicles but it’s taller and burlier, which makes it a much better vehicle to snipe from. Lazer is her driver, and he’s good. She’s by far the best shot in their war party and he’s guaranteed to make sure she get’s the clearest sight lines.

 

“The war parties are on the horizon” she yells over the rev of engines. A ripple of electricity runs through the fleet. “We are _not_ riding into battle; this is a rescue mission. I wanna see precision out there- no unnecessary use of firepower. Protect your crew, drive fast and clean. Let’s bring our people home!”

 

The war party lets out a cheer of defiance. It’s not the usual frenzied clamouring for war; it’s something more quiet and determined, and perhaps even more deadly. Everyone knows the stakes in this new world order.

 

They tear out of the Citadel, single-file through the minefield. They know the safe route, but she still holds her breath til the last war machine is clear of the boundary.

 

The blast of the horn from the war rig sounds across the desert. Max has seen the signal. She puts her scope to her eye and tries to see what’s going on from her vantage point on top of her war machine. The War Boys from the convoy are scrambling now, alerted to the oncoming armada. The rig roars to life. The assault bike from Gas Town’s side hasn’t moved; maybe they haven’t realized what’s going on yet. Those precious moments of confusion might give Max’s crew long enough to get out of there. But they’re moving so slowly… She watches him gun the rig forward and swing a hard left, arcing the tanker around and slowly picking up speed. He’s not going to decouple the tanker, she realizes, her stomach lurching sickeningly. There’s no way he can outrun the Gas Town convoy if he doesn’t drop the cargo, but she knows he won’t give up the Citadel’s resupply of bullets if he can help it.

 

The Gas Town Boys have seen what’s going on now, and they’re lurching forward, taking off after Max and his crew. The war rig is almost going straight and in the right direction, but it’ll only take a few seconds before the convoy is on them.

 

Suddenly a fireball blooms, eerily quiet and beautiful from this distance as orange flames burst through the blue. A moment later the sound catches up and the blast of an explosion rips through the air. Furiosa stares wide-eyed, searching desperately for it’s source--did they hit the war rig? One of the assist vehicles? Is everyone lost already?

 

“They blew the tanker!” Clutch yells, zooming past them in his pursuit vehicle. “Our boys blew the water! Gas Town haven’t got shit now!”

 

Furiosa blinks hard to clear her eyes, training her scope on the ashy plume of black. She sees the war rig, still in one piece and moving at top speed now. She breathes slowly to calm the hammering of her heart. The assist vehicles are flanking the rig, and the blast seems to have taken out one of the Gas Town convoy, plus the rig itself. Of course Max wouldn’t let them get away with fresh water. But now the remaining war machines will be coming for him harder than ever.

 

She turns to check the Citadel for a signal. The flashing lights tell her that Gas Town is sending its own reinforcements, but Furiosa and her men have a head start.

 

They fly across the desert towards the oncoming convoy, the gap closing rapidly. They should be on top of each other in less than five minutes. The lancers move to mount their perches. Three minutes out. The war rig is in plane view now, and she can see the War Boys hurling lances at the pursuit vehicles that surround them. Gunfire comes from the window of the cab. She can’t see him but she knows Max is well aware of them by now. Thirty seconds away. She lifts her rifle and stares down the sight; Lazer holds the war machine steady; she rests her finger on the trigger.

 

The crack of her rifle sounds half a second before the bullet finds its mark in the head of the driver in the closest pursuit vehicle. It spins off, out of control, flipping over as the car next to it swerves to avoid the carnage.

 

She looks up as they fly past the war rig, meeting Max’s eye for half a second before her truck plunges into the oncoming convoy.

 

The fleet crashes headlong into what remains of Grit’s party. She lines up another shot as Lazer spins them in a hard left, her rifle lets out another crack, another man goes down. They’re spinning 180 now, and she ducks as a lance explodes next to her; too close. Lazer sends them tearing off after the war rig.

 

Most of the fleet have made the about-face now, threading between the remains of the Gas Town convoy so it’s hard to tell who is who. War machines jostle for space, slamming into each other with a shriek of metal on metal, spikes and blades ripping into reinforced bodywork. Lances explode, shots fire from the war rig. Grit’s convoy disintegrates as vehicles are picked off one by one.

 

It’s all about the hard run home now; reinforcements from Gas Town are gaining on them, and while the fleet can take on a small convoy, it’s going to have a much harder time with any more vehicles.

 

Lazer draws them level with with the rig and Max looks down at her.

 

“You have to drop the tanker!” she yells.

 

He shakes his head.

 

“You can’t outrun them with that dead weight!”

 

“We can’t fight without bullets,” he yells back.

 

She knows he’s right, but she also knows that if they don’t make it back alive the Citadel will fall.

 

Shots ring out behind them. She can feel the heat of their engines on her back. A bullet ricochets off the roof of her machine and she flinches away, ducking down to reload and then line up the shot into the war party behind her. She pulls the trigger and another vehicle spins out. There are too many of them, and even from her vantage point on the boosted truck it’s hard to get a good sight line. Crouched in the back with the Gas Town boys just meters behind her, she has no real cover.

 

“Get me closer to the rig!” she calls to Lazer, who obediently swerves right to tuck in by the rig’s side.

 

She signals to the War Boys above her and one of them quickly clips into an anchor on the lancer’s perch, leaping off the roof and swinging in a wide arc towards Furiosa. She grabs his arm as he flies past and is jerked suddenly upward, crashing down on top of the rig moments later. They dive for cover as Gas Town’s bullets spatter all around them and she crawls towards the sniper’s nest.

 

The War Boy inside is hurt; bleeding badly. She bangs on the hatch to the cab and it slides back immediately, Max staring up at her. She quickly heaves the War Boy up and helps him slide down through the hatch and into the passenger seat. There’s no time to say anything but she can read the shift in Max’s expression and she thinks it’s something like relief. They know how to do this; they have done this before. They’re a good team.

 

She dives back into the sniper’s nest and sets up her next shot. From this vantage point it’s easy to pick off the vehicles that try to get alongside them. The Gas Town boys are all aiming for the war rig, having figured out that the most valuable cargo is there; both in terms of produce and people. Max rams the rig into a Gas Town assault bike that tried to sneak up his right side, crushing it under the wheels. The fleet flanks them, trying to block the way while also staying out of the line of fire. One of the War Boy’s trucks is hit hard from the side and it falters. It only takes a second and the Gas Town party are on it, pummeling it with lances and grenades. Another war machine moves in to assist but it’s too late; the truck explodes in a riot of angry orange and red, but not before the driver spins the wheel hard and smashes into it’s attackers, engulfing them all in flames.

 

“Witneeeeeeess!” one of the War Boys on the rig screams as another bows his head and offers the V8 sign in respect.

 

They’re closing on the Citadel now. The fleet is largely still in one piece, but not being suicidal anymore has certainly reduced its effectiveness. She and the rig’s crew fire shot after shot at the pursuing vehicles, knowing how precariously low their ammunition is running. But she knows they’re also coming into range of the Vuvalinis’ rifles.

 

She bangs twice on the roof of the cab to get Max’s attention.

 

“Fang it!” she yells, and he blasts the horn before giving the engine an injection of nitro.

 

The fleet surges forward, the sight of home sending a rush of adrenaline alongside the boost of nitro. The gap between them and the remains of the Gas Town reinforcements widens, and they bunch together tightly to fly single-file through the safe passage of the mine field and and into the courtyard of the Citadel. The last of them is barely skidding to a halt before the first of the Gas Town party hits the mines and explodes. In the speed and the confusion, three more of them blow before the rest slam on their brakes and come to a dead stop on the edge of the minefield.

 

Behind the cover of their vehicles, the War Boys start shooting in earnest as the snipers up above start to pick off the Gas Town boys one by one. All it takes is a couple of minutes of heavy fire before the last of them are slamming their cars into reverse and taking off back up the road, coming to a stop out of range.

 

Furiosa gives the signal and the Mill Rats spring into action above them, moving back the protective siding from the elevator gears and lowering the platform as Repair Boys simultaneously sail down from pulleys suspended from the mountain tops. Everyone knows they have precious little time; they’re wide open to attack and it’s only the snipers up above keeping the Gas Town boys at bay. Max backs the rig with its precious cargo onto the platform as his crew jumps down and runs for the pulleys, helping to secure the first vehicles for transport upwards. Max jumps down from the cab as Furiosa slides onto the hood and hits the ground next to him. They both run for the closest war machine and start securing it to a pulley. The first vehicles are already going up into the air in thirty seconds, but even with the Mill Rats moving faster than usual as their health has improved through access to food and water, the journey up is slow, and there are only so many pulleys. They’ll need to make at least five trips to get the whole fleet secured away.

 

“War parties are closing!” Abey’s voice echoes down from Tower Two.

 

There’s no time.

 

Furiosa and Max run headlong with the War Boys to secure each vehicle. The platform is crammed to bursting and the chains creek and groan under the weight. Furiosa starts instructing the men to jump aboard the war machines as the last of them start moving upward.

 

“We’re clear!” Furiosa yells to Max as she looks quickly about to check the courtyard. It’s just them, Fitz, and Lazer left on the ground.

 

Max hops aboard Lazer’s machine as it lifts slowly into the air, while Fitz and Furiosa secure the last vehicle and climb on. Suddenly there’s a blast of gunfire and the Fitz drops. Furiosa spins to see a lone Gas Town boy snaking his way across the minefield and approaching the Citadel, machine gun in hand and a heavy shield of metal held above his head to protect him from the Vuvalini. She fires off two shots, dropping the man instantly.

 

Fitz is down, but she’s determined not to lose anyone else. She drags him onto the hood of the war machine and uses his harness to anchor him to the pulley while Max snipes at approaching Gas Town boys from above her. Once Fitz is secure she turns back to the enemy on the ground, firing rapidly and sending them running for cover. They lurch up into the air as the Mill Rats set a rapid pace, and she hangs on tight with her mechanical arm as she continues to fire.

 

They’re almost free and clear when she sees the guy with the grenade launcher. She takes aim, but she’s only got her handgun now and it’s useless at this distance. Her bullets hit the dust around him as he kneels and sets his sights on her. There’s nothing she can do. She’s a dangling target and there’s no where to go. Max’s vehicle is almost at the docking platform and she can hear him yelling frantically at the snipers to take out the Gas Town boy. A rifle crack echoes around the rockface and the man jerks, but stays upright. Furiosa can hear her blood rushing in her ears as she watches him sway, right himself, and then fire.

 

The seconds before the shell hits are oddly silent.

 

Then she’s defened by the explosion of a direct hit, thrown sideways, the heavily damaged vehicle careening wildly in the air as she scrambles to hold on, bleary and disoriented. Fitz is still anchored to the pulley but she has no moorings, and she slides helplessly towards the edge of the truck, her fingers scrambling for purchase, her legs slipping over the edge and then her body plummeting--her metal arm catches hold of the edge of the doorframe and she jerks to a stop. Gunfire showers the metal around her as the men on the ground zero in for the kill, and she stares wildly around for an exit. She’s still at least fifteen meters from the docking platform, and her grip is slipping. Above her, Max’s car is being pulled onto the platform, and she can hear him barking orders but he’s disappeared from view. She looks down at the drop beneath her as the bullets continue to spray all around and her hold weakens. If they hit her, she’ll fall. If she falls, she’s dead.

 

Suddenly there’s a shout of alarm above her and she looks up to see Max jumping off the platform. For a second she’s filled with confused horror until the rope catches him and he jerks to a stop. He’s tied in with one of the Repair Boys’ harnesses and descending towards her rapidly, hitting the roof and scrambling over the side towards her as she desperately tries to hold on for a few more seconds. He reaches for her and her fingers close around the flesh of his arm; solid, safe. He pulls hard and she’s scrambling up to safety and out of range of the Gas Town crew below. He drags her back to where Fitz is clipped in to the pulley, and hooks her own harness in, holding her securely as they jerk upward rapidly. She’s is shaking from head to toe with exhaustion and adrenaline. Her arm feels like it was pulled out of its socket and her side is screaming with pain. Max is solid behind her, and she lets him take her weight as her muscles give out.

 

They draw level with the platform and eager hands draw them rapidly in while others run to seal the doors shut behind them. Fitz is quickly unhooked and carried out to the infirmary. She slides off the roof of the mangled vehicle and onto solid ground, breathing heavily, muscles shaking. Max is bent double next to her, trying to catch his breath.

 

An hour ago she’d sent him out on what she thought could well be a suicide mission. An hour ago she thought for sure he was dead, but he’s here and still very much alive. Two days ago she thought he was gone, but he stayed. A week ago he’d left them to cross the salt alone, but he’d come after them. And two days before that he’d tried to kill her and leave her to be shredded by the vengeful Imortan, but instead he’d pulled himself back from the edge of insanity to help five young women and a rogue imperator have a chance at freedom. She’s known him for only eleven days, and yet he’s rapidly becoming one of the most essential people in her life.

 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline; maybe it’s the fear and the relief. Maybe it’s the accumulation of so many ways in which he is the reason that she is still breathing, and the ways in which he wouldn’t be here without her. Maybe she’s just trying to express her gratitude the only way she knows how, because she can’t just say, _I’m glad you’re here._

 

She leans closer to him before she can give it a second thought, closing the space between them  to rest her forehead against his. A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face, but he doesn’t flinch like she expects. He stays very still and leans gently against her. She’s not even sure what emotion she’s trying to communicate, only that for some feelings, words have never been enough for her. She keeps her head pressed to his for just a moment, and then she moves away, straightening up.

 

“We’ve gotta get up top,” she tells him.

 

He nods. “How about a little fresh ammo?” he cocks his head at Gas Town’s tanker, secured within their stronghold.

 

She walks over with him to where a crowd of War Boys has gathered, clamoring to see inside. A Repair Boy breaks the lock with a pair of bolt cutters and the doors swing open.

 

Crates of grenades and boxes of bullets gleam in the half-light with a dull sheen. Grit was as good as his word. Furiosa feels a pang of guilt at how ruthlessly she’s set out to destroy his convoy in the desert, but it wasn’t personal. She knows he would have done the same to her if the roles were reversed. If he’d seen the War Party first, Max and his crew would be dead.

 

The War Boys let out a whoop of excitement and climb into the truck, enthusiastically unloading the crates and starting up a call and response as they toss boxes down into waiting arms. They needed some good news; morale had been getting dangerously low.

  
The war parties are finally here, and the siege has really begun. But now, at least they have a fighting chance. She and Max grab some crates of rifle bullets, and head for the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so torn about whether to have the tanker be full of weapons or empty! In the end I just couldn't do that to them- maybe it would have been better storytelling, but I felt like they needed to succeed for once, instead of just barely limping through! I have some other ideas to keep things angst-ridden though, don't worry :P
> 
> I'm going out of town for a week so I might not update til I'm back. But I will update soon, I promise!


	6. Lookout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually post from both Max and Furiosa's perspective in a chapter, but it's taken a while to get this one done and I didn't want to leave y'all hanging for too long. So this chapter is all Max; the next will be all Furiosa.
> 
> Also I've added some new tags for PTSD and panic attacks. If you're finding anything else difficult as you read, please let me know and I'll update the tags :)

**Max**

The war parties have assembled at a safe distance from the Citadel. They look like they’re in bad shape. They haven’t had a good supply of fresh water or food for a week, though Max doesn’t doubt they took what they could from the Rock Riders. That would have come with its own costs though; the armada was trapped in that narrow canon, in Rock Rider territory, in a sixty vehicle traffic jam with a pileup and a rockslide at the end of it. They would have had to fight their way out. There are definitely less men on the ground now, and the war parties are noticeably smaller. But they have an endless supply of bullets and grenades coming from the Bullet Farm, and guzzoline to make the supply runs. What they don’t have is time; they’re going to need water and food very soon.

Time is on the side of the Citadel, so long as they can hold it. But breaching their defenses as quickly as possible is clearly the war parties’ priority.

Their resupply of bullets isn’t going to last as long as they’d like, but it’s more than they had a few hours ago. They lost one war machine on the road, and one vehicle rendered scrap-worthy by a Gas Town grenade launcher, though the Repair Boys never write off any vehicle completely; it’s just more of a challenge. But right now they’re left with only eight pursuit vehicles, plus the bikes and big rigs. Of the twenty remaining War Boys that went out, eighteen came back, and two are in the infirmary, along with three of the Repair Boys who joined the fleet. It’s not nearly enough manpower to go up against the 200 War Boys currently on the ground outside the Citadel, and more will come from Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Not that they’re planning on venturing outside any time soon, but waiting out the war parties is only a solution for the immediate problem; more enemies will always come, and they can’t hide inside forever. The city may be full of people, but most of them don’t know how to fight.

It doesn’t mean they won’t try though; Max has seen the grim determination on the faces of the former-Wretched, finally given a taste of a better life and desperate not to give it up. He’s seen it in the endless creativity of the mechanics who are coming up with new and better ways to fortify the city. It’s there in the willingness of the Repair Boys to join the War Boys, even though all of the glamour and promise of war is now gone. There’s no living again after death, only living now. He keenly feels the way they all gravitate towards that single instinct: survive. It’s what’s driven him for longer than he cares to remember.

There’s a twin instinct growing in him now though: to protect. He’d recognized it glimmering inside from some long-buried place the moment he’d met the Sisters, and he’d shoved it down hard, terrified of the ghosts that feeling brings back. It wasn’t until Furiosa said she was looking for redemption that he allowed himself to stop running from that feeling; to take it out from it’s hiding place and look at it; to see if maybe redemption could trump survival. Maybe he wasn’t better off alone; maybe what he needed was to be with people he could trust. His head started to clear that day, and for the first time in years he felt like himself again.

It’s probably this growing sense of security and belonging that allows him to spend an hour in the infirmary after this latest skirmish on the Fury Road, without succumbing to the visions in his head. Many of the War Boys and Black Thumbs are in bad shape and need urgent medical attention, and while Smith seems to have a strong grasp of the medical sciences, he also seems to have a strong aversion to getting his hands dirty. His job was to sustain life from the clinical and sterile distance of test tubes; to push off the inevitable slow onslaught of death from cancers or tuberculosis; not to deal with gaping wounds and severed arteries. It seems like even the most rudimentary emergency medical knowledge is lacking in the Citadel, and word had spread of the way Max had brought Furiosa back from the dead. He was quickly summoned to the infirmary to do the things that Smith wouldn’t.

Smith barks diagnoses at Max from a safe distance while Max cuts and sutures with Dag’s assistance. Though her hands tremble as she passes him a pair of pliers to dig a bullet out of Fitz, she never falters; she watches his movements like a hawk, drinking up Smith’s diagnoses and Max’s responses, learning all she can. He stays for as long as he can manage, til the pressure in his chest is no longer something he can ignore. He works on sewing together the scarred skin of Fitz; thankfully he’s no longer screaming, having passed out finally from the pain, though two Repair Boys are lined up next to him, groaning and waiting for attention. Their bodies look like so many others he’s seen through the years, broken in ever more varied and horrific ways; civilians fallen victim to the gangs on the outback highways; marauders attacking besieged compounds; men fighting men for sport. The trappings of the Organic Mechanic are all around and his high nasal voice echoes in Max’s ear; he can see spittle and blood dripping from his lips where Max’s boot had managed to catch him in the face; he can almost feel the jolt of the cattle prods and the blood rushing to his head as he hangs helplessly upside down. The needle of the tattoo scratches endlessly against his back. The room seems impossible small and warm. Max counts his breath as he pushes the needle in an out of War Boy flesh.

Just as he’s feeling like he can’t take another minute down here, Furiosa comes in to check on Fitz and the other injured members of the fleet. She takes one look at Max and moves to take over, slipping the needle and thread from his trembling hands and applying pressure to the gauze that’s rapidly soaking up with blood. He moves quickly to the sink to wash the blood off his hands, scrubbing vigorously as he watches his skin turn slowly from crimson to tan. She sends Dag upstairs and the sister reappears a few minutes later with Amy, the Vuvalini taking Furiosa’s place at the operating table. She approaches Max cautiously, handing him a towel to dry his hands, scrubbed almost raw.

“We’ve got this,” she tells him quietly, nodding towards the injured men. “I need you up top. Eastern-most lookout on Tower Three.”

He nods, giving her what he hopes is a look of gratitude, the tightness in his chest easing with every step he takes towards the blue sky above.

They’ve barely spoken since he saw her fall from her vehicle that morning and he’d snatched up a rope from the Repair Boy next to him, clipping into an anchor and hurling himself after her. Years of acting on instinct had taught him never to hesitate because that split second could be the difference between life and death, and this was not a life he was willing to risk losing. He’d held his breath when she moved to rest her forehead against his; a gesture so simple and trusting it spoke volumes. She’d barely touched him besides that moment; only in the heat of battle, or when she could no longer stand by herself. But he’s seen her with the Sisters and the Vuvalini; though she holds herself tightly coiled she can be easily undone when someone she cares about comes to her with affection. He’d seen the tears in her eyes over Angharad; the way she’d clung to The Valkyrie; the easiness with which the Sisters slip an arm around her waist or rest a head on her shoulder. He longs for that openness; for the ability to reach out and connect that way. At first, shutting off emotionally had been a crutch; soon, it became a necessity. Now he doesn’t know how to turn it off; this instinct to push people away. He’s been fighting against it since he became part of Furiosa’s team on the War Rig, but trust doesn’t come easy. He suspects that she sensed his uneasiness and kept her distance, touching him only when it was necessary. But since he’d come back, or rather since she found out he’d stayed, she’s been warmer with him.

And the Sisters aren’t shy with their affections; he’ll have to get used to physical contact quickly, even if he’s not exactly comfortable with it. But perhaps that would just take time; it had been a long while since anyone touched him without the intent to harm.

 

Now he climbs out onto a lookout perch on Tower Three, ready to take his shift as sniper, his heart slowing to a normal rate and the voices quieting. He looks down the sight and takes a slow, steady breath.

He’s one of many snipers on the three towers; now that they have bullets, the Vuvalini are much more open to letting some of the greener shooters from the former-Wretched have a go at improving their aim. Most of them are women, Max notes, which makes sense. The Pups were taken from the Wretched, which meant that most of the healthy boys went into the Citadel at an early age to become War Boys and mechanics, leaving the girls to cut their teeth in the wasteland. These hardened young women look reinvigorated with fresh food and water, fire in their eyes at a chance to finally take what’s been denied to them for so long. At first they only act as deterrents; their bullets going wide but providing enough of a threat to keep the enemy War Boys away. But now they stare down the sight of their rifles and fire with increasing precision, dropping anyone on the ground who moves into range and wasting fewer and fewer bullets each time.

He guesses it’s about an hour later when Furiosa reappears up top.

“How’s the boy?” he calls to her.

“He’ll live,” she replies. “You did a good job.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, turning back to the wastes as Furiosa takes a seat behind him in the shade of the tool shed where they’d slept the night before. Or where he’d slept; maybe she had just waited with him. He looks back as he hears someone else approach; it’s Capable.

Capable has been moving warily around Furiosa since their clash at the council meeting the day before, but he can see she’s just been waiting for a moment to reconcile. She’d been on the platform when the fleet was rapidly pulled up into the docking station and he’d seen the panic and responsibility weighing on her. She and her sisters had defied Joe and escaped from the Citadel; they’d been party to the killing of the Immortan, the Bullet Farmer, and the People Eater, plus a lot of their men; they’d lost almost all of the Vuvalini; and then they’d returned and claimed this place as their own with promises of a better life. The need to deliver on that promise and the cost it comes with are both heavy burdens. He’d seen her relief when the final vehicles were brought up with him aboard, and then her horror when she realized Furiosa wasn’t there. She knew Furiosa would make the tough decisions, and would risk herself before anyone else. It was the cost Capable couldn’t stomach; she couldn’t stand to lose anyone else.

Now she climbs onto the pile of canvas bags and crouches beside Furiosa, sliding her arms around Furiosa’s shoulders and resting their heads together, seeking absolution. Furiosa gives her a small smile and leans into the embrace, rubbing Capable’s arm gently. There’s no forgiveness needed. She looks up and catches Max’s eye; he gives her a little nod of encouragement before turning his focus back to the war parties below.

They don’t come close, with the exception of a kamikaze attempt early on; without warning a war machine had flown full tilt towards the minefield, trying to follow the tracks of the fleet through the narrow safe zone. He almost made it. Rifles cracked from all around the Citadel; Max wasn’t sure who took out the driver, but it wasn’t him, not from this angle. The car span off-course, quickly hit a mine, and exploded. The war parties haven’t attempted to come into range again since.

The sun has begun it’s descent. There’s a tarp hung above him to protect him from the worst of the midday sun, but still it’s a relief to feel the temperature cooling. Somewhere behind him Toast is working with Furiosa to improve her stance, how to slow her breathing, hold her aim steady. He listens to Furiosa talk about range estimation, wind, barometric pressure, all of which has to be calculated in a matter of seconds. The hot-headedness of war is a world away from the calm singular focus of the Vuvalini.

That calm seems to permeate the mountain tops. Up here the air is cool and clear; people sit in the shade of the green in little groups, dozing or exchanging murmured stories as they wait for their shift on the guns. The towers below them hum with activity; Mill Rats, former-Wretched, and mechanics going about their daily tasks to keep the city functioning.There are plants to be tended, water pipes to maintain, fortifications to improve, food to be cooked and distributed. They move with a singular purpose.

On the ground Max watches the war parties rev their engines and drive in useless circles around the Citadel, scattering bullets to vent their frustration, firing grenades to explode on the rockface. The constant booming wears on Max’s nerves, but up here in all the green he feels removed enough to keep a clear head.

Dag returns from the infirmary with a group of the older Pups who she instructs in harvesting leaves and roots to make medicines; Smith gave her some medical texts to work with, but he sneered at her efforts. He was never that concerned with sustaining life. After all there were always more War Boys and more Pups; more battle fodder. She retires to the shade of the tool shed to pour over the books; Amy, Mara, and Furiosa sit with her, taking a break from their posts. Furiosa doesn’t say much, but when he looks back he sees her listening with rapt attention as the Vuvalini identify the different plants and their healing properties; half-remembered traditions and shared wisdom from a lost culture. A stolen childhood.

The hours tick by and the sun sets; the war parties retreat to make camp, temporarily ceasing their endless whirling in the dust and the useless expenditure of ammunition. The cannons still boom as grenades and bombs are launched perpetually at the Citadel’s so far impenetrable exterior. It’s psychological warfare at this point and to some degree it seems to be working; Cheedo’s been below deck all day with the Milk Mothers, soothing frightened Pups too young to understand that the gloriousness of war they’d been sold into is terrifying and loud and relentless in reality. Max stays up top, away from their whimpers; it sets his pulse racing and his chest tightens. Up here he can breathe, and he can be useful.

Furiosa comes up behind him; he’s aware of her presence before she touches him lightly on the leg, signaling that she’s ready to take over. He clambers back down from his perch, silently passing his rifle as she hands him a canteen of water. As he moves to lie back on the pile of cloth against the shed wall, Dag scoots closer to him, eager to share his body heat in the rapidly cooling night. She’s got a small lantern and is still pouring over her books. He reads over her shoulder.

 

_Honey has been shown to hamper the growth of foodborne pathogens such as E. coli and salmonella, and to fight certain bacteria, including Staphylococcus aureus. It has also been shown to contain antifungal and anti-inflammatory properties._

“Need bees to get honey,” Dag sighs.

“I knew a man once, who kept bees,” Max tells her.

“Kept them?”

“Mmm.”

“How?”

“In a beehive. A little wooden box, with slats. They fill it up, and you just take out the shelves; scrape off the honey.” He mimes the motions.

She looks at him skeptically. “Bees have stingers.”

“Well you have to put the bees to sleep.”

“Put them to sleep?”

“Mmm.”

“How?”

“With smoke.”

“Smoke?” she looks incredulous.

“Makes them drowsy,” he explains.

She shakes her head at him like she’s sure he’s still insane, returning to her book. Cheedo and Capable approach, each with a Pup on their hip, and climb onto the pile of cloth bags. Max eyes the children doubtfully, hoping they won’t start whimpering and set his shattered nerves screaming. But they’re quiet and just cling to the Sisters, staring at them with huge doleful eyes in blackened sockets, the grease still staining their pores though the white paint has washed away from their natural dark skin. He tries to guess their ages; maybe five and six? Were they newly taken from the Wretched or have they been here a while? How young are the newest recruits to this life? One of the boys pops his thumb into his mouth and buries his fingers in Cheedo’s hair. Max turns away; it’s hard to look at them. He focuses instead on the darkened silhouette of Furiosa on the sniper’s perch, solid and resilient.

He listens to the Sisters’ soft voices as they huddle together under shared blankets, the Pups asleep in their arms. Capable talks to Cheedo about trying to find the Pups’ families; that she’s already heard of a few reunions between the mechanics and some of the Wretched from whence they came. But children were taken from families all over; sometimes from mothers trying to give their sons a better life; sometimes they were stolen. That’s the word Furiosa had used. Stolen to be indoctrinated into a new way of life, skin painted white, made faceless and interchangable. Battle fodder. He wonders at the ability of the snipers to shoot down the men in the war parties, knowing some could be their brothers. They probably can’t even think about it; with the way things are, the war parties will kill them all the first chance they get. There’s no room for mercy.

He dozes with the sisters curled around him, always one eye half open. After a few hours he rises to take Furiosa’s place on the lookout, and she stretches out by the Sisters. The night passes uneventfully, switching off with Furiosa every couple of hours until finally Toast disentangles herself from the sisters, signalling to Furiosa that she’ll take a turn. She climbs up onto the perch as Furiosa lies down beside him, unstrapping her arm and laying it out next to her, rolling her shoulders with relief. He closes his eyes and slips into sleep. He dreams of being in the Gigahorse on the way to the Citadel, Furiosa leaning against him, barely conscious as his blood flows into her arm; the pressure of her head resting against his shoulder, her cropped hair brushing against his cheek.

Before he knows it, the sun’s coming up and Cheedo’s nudging him awake to pass him a mug full of what smells like broth, with little bits of meat and beans and other vegetables floating in it. He turns to see Furiosa resting against him, realizing only as she raises her head that she slept on his shoulder in reality and not just in his dream. And then realizing that his dreams were long and deep instead of harrowed and urgent, and he feels more well-rested than he has in years.

The Sisters are moving about the mountaintops distributing soup with a trail of excited Pups ready to assist. He drinks his broth hungrily. It’s good and salty and tastes like meat even if there isn’t a whole lot of actual meat in there. The beans are surprisingly filling.

Furiosa rises and begins to rebuckle her arm, pulling the straps tight and wincing as she does. Max’s brow furrows with concern but she seems unperturbed, heading over to Toast to relieve the woman of her watch and pass her a cup of broth.

But Toast is sitting up, alert, her rifle trained on something in the distance. Furiosa looks back towards Max but he’s already scrambling up and tossing her a scope. She catches it and turns quickly back to the Fury Road as he comes up behind her, squinting at the war parties in the near distance. He spots what’s caught their attention right away; a lone vehicle making its way slowly towards the Citadel. It stops a safe distance from the minefield and idles there. Toast cocks her rifle and peers through the sight.

A lone white figure exits from the passenger side, arms held aloft. The door slams and the vehicle reverses hard, spinning 180 and heading back to the war parties at speed. The man remains at the edge of the minefield, waiting.

“What is this?” Toast asks doubtfully, her rifle still trained on the unarmed man.

Max watches Furiosa who is standing stock still, every muscle in her body humming with tension. She’s still glued to the scope, trying to get a better view of the man below.

“You know him?” Max ventures finally.

His voice seems to shake her back to the present and she turns to Toast, pulling her gun down gently.

“Signal the others to hold their fire.”

Toast hesitates in confusion for a moment, but quickly pulls a mirror from her pocket and hurriedly flashes the signal across to the other towers. He hears the distant snipers passing the message down the line, the command to hold their fire echoing from person to person and off the rock.

 

Furiosa’s eyes are back on the man below again. Max watches her, waiting patiently. She looks more conflicted than he’s ever seen her; not grief-stricken or angry or hurt or afraid. But apprehensive. Completely unsure. It scares him.

 

“Who is he?” he asks again, unable to wait any longer.

 

“He was my lieutenant,” she says finally, turning to meet Max’s eyes. “His name is Ace.”


	7. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Furiosa-only chapter following the last Max-only chapter. I prefer having dual perspectives in a chapter so I'll try to get back into the swing of that for the next one!
> 
> And thanks for your enthusiastic feedback! It's great to hear from this fandom- I'm kindof new to it, but it's by far my favorite :)

**Furiosa**

 

Everyone on the council is yelling. The emergency meeting was called as soon as Ace was retrieved from the minefield by a group of armed War Boys and Wretched, increasingly difficult to distinguish now that the War Boys no longer wear their white paint, and the Wretched are getting more plump. He was hustled inside quickly and the council convened so they could decide what to do before word of Ace’s presence spread throughout the Citadel, but already everyone knows. The Wretched might not be aware of who he is, but all the regular inhabitants of the Citadel are, and rumors are already flying. Furiosa hasn’t even seen him yet; she’d given the order to bring him in by armed guard and hold him in the cells below. He’s been fed and watered, but that’s as much as she knows. She’s been stuck in the council rooms for the last hour getting more and more frustrated with the lack consensus.

 

“But what does he actually want?” The Bookkeeper is demanding. “Why is he here?”

 

“He said he’s here to negotiate,” Lazer reports.

 

He was one of the War Boys who went to bring Ace in, rather sheepishly, unable to meet the older War Boy’s eye as he checked him over for weapons and frog marched him up to the cells.

 

“Were those his actual words?” Meecham wants to know. “Did he say he wants to negotiate? Or the war parties want to negotiate? Is he here to surrender, or as a representative of the war parties?”

 

“Well they obviously didn’t just give him a lift over to the Citadel so he could defect,” Jonas scoffs. “ _Oh you’d like to join the rebels? Sure, just hop into this war machine and will give you a ride down, no need to trouble yourself with walking!_ ”

 

“What I’m trying to get at is, who is he representing?” Meecham responds tersely. “With whom are we actually negotiating?  Who’s in charge over there?”

 

“Joe, the People Eater, and the Bullet Farmer are all dead,” Capable notes. “Rictus too. And I saw three of Joe’s Imperators go down in battle.”

 

“You’re assuming they actually want to negotiate,” Toast interjects. “They sent Ace for a reason; they knew he’d be allowed in. We would have shot anyone else on sight.”

 

“We almost shot him anyway,” Mara notes. “Almost didn’t see the signal in time.”

 

“They were willing to risk it,” Capable responds hopefully. “That must mean they’re serious.”

 

“Or that they don’t think his life’s worth shit,” Dag points out. “They’re desperate. Gas Town and the Bullet Farm must be almost out of water by now, and they haven’t had any luck with our defenses.”

 

“He’s obviously here to kill Furiosa,” The Bookkeeper proclaims. Stunned silence is quickly replaced by a chorus of protest from the sisters, Lazer, Clutch and Rev.

 

“Ace is loyal!” Lazer corrects him fiercely.

 

“Yes, Ace is loyal,” Meecham agrees. “Loyal to the Immortan. Loyal to his crew. Furiosa, not so much.” He gives her a significant look. She makes her bio hand into a fist so tight she can feel her nails digging into her flesh, and says nothing.

 

“Furiosa did what was necessary. What was _right_ ,” Capable rounds on him.

 

“And in the process she betrayed her crew. Her men,” Meecham explains. “What self-respecting War Boy wouldn’t want vengeance? And the war parties are happy to let him have it.”

 

Furiosa stares defiantly at the table. She can’t bring herself to meet their eyes. She feels as if she’s on trial. They’re not saying anything she didn’t already know; as soon as she recognized Ace standing at the edge of the minefield, she knew he was here to kill her. And she knew they’d sent him because she would let him in, even knowing what his mission must be.

 

“If he’s here to kill Furiosa, why on earth did we let him in?” Sofia, one of the Milk Mothers asks incredulously.

 

“His presence is already having an unsettling effect on the Pups,” Eva adds. “He’s one of the oldest War Boys, they all know him. They all think he’s here to join us. It will be terribly demoralizing for them if he has to be killed.”

 

“Why would we kill him?” Capable asks, the War Boys and Black Thumbs echoing her horror.

 

“If we send him back to the war parties he’s as good as dead anyway,” Smith says with a yawn. “He’s been sent with a mission. If he doesn’t complete it, they’ll assume he’s been turned. He’s an old man at the end of his half life; they’ll expect a kami-krazy attempt at the very least.”

 

“Well first we should find out what he knows,”  Meecham interjects.

 

“He won’t tell us anything willingly,” The Bookkeeper points out, carelessly picking at a hangnail.

 

“We are _not_ torturing him,” Capable responds threateningly.

 

“Just a little carefully applied persuasion,” Meecham says innocently. “Negotiation is a delicate art.”

 

“I’ll talk to him,” Furiosa says finally, tired of listening to them argue.

 

“No!” at least seven people shout vociferously.

 

“He’s here to see me. I’m the one he wants to negotiate with,” she points out.

 

“He wants to get in a room with you so he can take you out,” Sallah counters.

 

“I’m aware of that,” Furiosa responds calmly, though her tone takes on a threatening and weary edge. “But he is restrained and he’s in the holding cells. And this is not my first rodeo. We need to know what he knows, and he’s not going to give us anything unless he gets what he wants.”

 

“You can’t go alone,” Cheedo speaks up for the first time. Everyone turns to look at her. She has an odd effect on the council; her apparent frailty juxtaposed with her increasingly pragmatic assessments often has the effect of short-circuiting an argument. Now her acceptance that Furiosa will meet with Ace as a forgone conclusion seems to be giving some of the others pause.

 

Dag is the first to be swayed by Cheedo’s opinion. “She can take some War Boys with her?”

 

“I’ll get some boys together,” Lazer offers.

 

“Or we can back you up,” Clutch suggests as Rev nods enthusiastically.

 

“Let’s not send half the council into a cage with a kami-krazy old War Boy,” The Bookkeeper responds, rolling his eyes.

 

“I go alone,” Furiosa tells them.

 

She knows that’s the only way this will work. She needs to speak to her lieutenant on equal terms, not as a usurper flanked by a squad of traitorous War Boys. She needs to have a chance to explain some things, to be honest with him. She’s trying not to admit even to herself that she wants to bring Ace around, but she at least wants the chance to defend her actions. Even as she knows that there can be no justification for what she did to her crew; not in Ace’s eyes. Maybe not in hers either.

 

“At least take Max,” Toast suggests.

 

The council turns in unison to look over at where Max is hovering by the door, watching them all in silence. His arms are crossed and his shoulders are hunched defensively, as they so often are town in the tunnels. But he straightens under their gaze, as if to dispel any doubts about his competence. He doesn’t respond though, only looks to Furiosa, awaiting her say-so. She nods finally, if only to wrap this meeting up already. She knows Max will hang back if she asks him to, and quite frankly she has no desire to send him down to the holding cells. She knows he’d come with her if she asked, but she’s confident she doesn’t need his backup, and she’d rather not put him through that ordeal just to placate the council.

 

Getting out of the council rooms is a huge relief, but she finds herself dragging her feet as she makes her way over to the holding cells in Tower Three. Max is at her side, trailing just a pace or two behind.

 

“You don’t have to come with me,” she tells him over her shoulder.

 

He takes a second to respond, like he’s processing her possible meanings. “I’m here if you need me.”

 

She turns back to face him, to meet his eyes as she nods, so he knows that she appreciates the offer and the fact that he’s not questioning her; that he trusts her when she says she can take care of herself. “I think it’ll go better if I’m alone.”

 

He grunts in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t leave yet. She wonders if he can sense her misgivings. She slows at the bridge between Towers Two and Three, looking out across the empty courtyard and to the Fury Road beyond. The war parties are a distant black line on the horizon, watching and waiting. Max waits at her side, and she can feel his eyes on her as she deliberately keeps from looking at him. She doesn’t want him to see the uncertainty there, though she’s sure he’s picked up on it by the way he hovers close by, unwilling to leave her yet.

 

“So this… Ace,” he begins gruffly. She’s so surprised he’s the one to begin the conversation that she turns to look at him before she can stop to think. As soon as she meets his gaze she knows he can see it all there; all her conflict. And she’s suddenly glad; she needs to talk about it. She nods for him to go on.

 

“You work with him long?” Max asks.

 

She nods, leaning on the railing and looking back out at the courtyard. It’s easier to talk if she’s not looking at him. She feels too exposed with Max, like he understands everything without her having to explain, and that’s both comforting and terrifying.

 

“Six months on the War Rig with him and the rest of my crew. Three years with him as my lancer before that. We met as Black Thumbs, years before; started doing war around the same time. All the War Boys looked up to him. But he couldn’t make the tough decisions; cared too much about the men.”

 

That’s why he’ll never forgive me for what I did to my crew, she thinks. She had risen to the rank of Imperator through sheer force of will in a culture where women were worth less than nothing. She’d fought for every promotion; she was the most skilled mechanic, the best shot, the most reliable road warrior. She worked ten times as hard as any of the other Imperators just to get noticed. She didn’t let anything get in the way of her single-minded ambition. It was about survival in a hypermasculine world; if she wanted to make sure the other War Boys didn’t trample her, she had to make them fear her. She had to make them respect her. And every promotion brought her closer to the War Rig; closer to a shot at freedom. Maybe it was because Ace was a half-life; he didn’t look to the future the way she did. Most of the War Boys still had ambitions but they were never going to be Imperators. They just wanted to die historic. Ace was different, and that’s why he had lived longer than most; he didn’t take the same risks; he just made sure his men got through to fight another day.

 

“He was loyal to the Immortan?” Max’s voice brings her back from her thoughts.

 

She shakes her head. “To the other men. I don’t know how much of Joe’s cult he really bought into. He didn’t fight for the ideology. He fought for his crew.”

 

She had too, for the six months they’d driven the War Rig together. She trusted Ace implicitly; he would always follow orders without questioning, and his loyalty inspired something similar in the rest of her men. Maybe without Ace they would have been less thrilled about being led by a woman. But in following his example they had become the tightest and most reliable crew Immortan Joe had ever put on a War Rig. Six months of successful supply runs and battles with only one casualty. And then she’d counted three of her men go down within the first ten minutes of her going on her little ‘detour’; the entire crew lost by the time she hit the sandstorm.

 

“He didn’t question me,” she looks at Max finally. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for her to go on. “When I went off-road. He just passed the new orders down the line. Even when the war parties were on our heels and he must have known something was wrong, he still kept to his orders. Half our crew down. Citadel war machines trying to run me off the road. He should have killed me. He never even tried.”

 

“Sounds like his loyalty was to you.”

 

“Not any more,” she looks away the guilt welling up and making her chest tight.

 

They look out over the Citadel in silence for a few moments. She’s about to collect herself and go to face her demons when Max speaks again.

 

“You said he cared too much for the men. How many men were lost to Joe’s cause? How much blood is on his hands? You started this looking for redemption. How dyou know this Ace won’t want the same thing?”

 

She wants to believe that. She hasn’t been admitting it to herself but she wants to believe that more than anything. Because if anyone from the Citadel could have been brought around to her way of thinking, it was Ace. Or he would have been, before, if she’d had a chance to talk to him about her plan. But she couldn’t have risked it, she knows this. The Sisters’ lives were hanging in the balance, not just her own. So she’d kept silent and got ready to run. In that moment she’d chosen them over her crew, and she’s never been sure if that was the right decision. At the time, she had believed the War Boys were victims of the same misogynistic society and toxic ideology, but they weren’t in the position of Joe’s wives. They weren’t in _her_ position. Maybe she had been projecting, because once she had been like the Sisters, but now she was part of Joe’s war machine; complicit in Joe’s misdeeds like all the other inhabitants of the Citadel. She took on the blame, and she heaped it on the War Boys too. But maybe she’d been wrong. She thought they were to blame because at least the men could fight back; all the women could do was run. But then the women had fought back too; the sisters and the Vuvalini, and two men who had been chewed up and spat out by Joe’s regime the same way she had. And they had won, in a way, and then returned as liberators with hundreds of dead War Boys in their wake. Breeding stock. Battle fodder. Was there really any difference between them? At the time, running and betraying her crew had seemed like the only option. Now she isn’t sure she made the right decision.

 

And Ace is here to make her count the cost.

 

“He made his choice,” Max continues. “To be complicit. You made your choice to betray his trust. Can’t change that now. Only move forward.”

 

She nods slowly, wondering if a man so clearly haunted by his past can really move forward. Maybe that’s why he’s still here; to keep moving forward; to stop himself sliding back into the memories that torment him. At least here, he has a purpose.

 

“You think he wants vengeance more than redemption?” Max asks, finally.

 

She looks at him, holds his gaze for a long time. This might be the longest conversation they’ve ever had. She wonders how much of Max’s words come from bitter experience. Had he been betrayed, or betrayed others? She thinks of how quickly he’d been won to their cause; one moment fighting her for his life and pointing a gun to her head, the next loading a rifle and passing it to her as they fought side by side. How he’d held out his hand to her in an offer of partnership on a road to redemption. How he’s still here fighting for that cause though he owes the Citadel nothing. These are not his sins. But Ace’s sins are ground into the very stone this city is made of, just like her own. Their complicity in Joe’s regime is everywhere. Surely, then, their goals could be brought into alignment, even at this late stage?

 

“I guess I’ll find out,” she answers finally, turning to enter Tower Three and make her way to the cells.

 

“I’ll be on the docking station,” he calls after her, heading down a different tunnel.

 

Always close by. Always easy to find if she needs him. Reliable. She never could have imaged using that word to describe him in the hours after they first met. But then, there were a lot of things should couldn’t have imaged about her current situation less than a fortnight ago.

 

She finds Ace sitting in the holding cells. He looks up at her as she enters. His face is a mask; unreadable. His hands and feet are shackled, and she summons the guard as soon as she sees his chains.

 

“Take those off,” she tells him. “And then leave us.”

 

The guard--a mechanic recently signed up as a War Boy--moves quickly to uncuff the older man, looking shame-faced but also wary. He scampers out of Ace’s range as soon as the man is loose, as if anticipating a boot to his face.

 

But Ace isn’t looking at the boy; his eyes haven’t left Furiosa. She meets his gaze steadily. She thinks about apologizing for the restraints but it seems disingenuous; they both know why he’s here, and why he needs to be bound.

 

“You’ve had food and water?” she says instead.

 

He nods in response. The seconds of silence stretch out like minutes.

 

“How did you come to be with the war parties?” she asks. She hadn’t seen him in the battles; not since she threw him off the rig early on. But there were a lot of men chasing them; he could have been somewhere in the convoy and she just hadn’t seen him. She doubts it though.

 

“They picked me up a couple of days ago, as they were coming back through Buzzard territory.”

 

His voice is even and he avoids any mention of how he came to be stranded in Buzzard territory in the first place, or what he’s had to do to survive since then. There are plenty of fresh wounds on his skin, and some older ones too, plainly visible now his war paint has rubbed off. His nose is badly broken, she notes with a pang of guilt. It was always crooked, but now it looks positively mashed.

 

“Saw a few familiar faces,” he continues. “Boys still mobile after their crashes who managed to jump back on the war party after the storm. And others we picked up on the way back through, walking in the Wastes like me.”

 

He’s talking about her crew. How many of them are still alive? Her jaw works as she struggles to maintain her composure. She bites back her questions and focuses on the purpose of her visit; to explain herself. To negotiate.

 

She takes a deep breath. “I made a choice to get out of this fucked up place. To try and do something good after so many years of helping to make things worse. To help five innocent women. My decision cost you, and it cost my crew. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I made it and I have to own it now.”

 

“Those men would have laid down their lives for you,” he growls in response. “Some of them did.”

 

“I know. But if I’d told you what I was doing you would have turned me in.”

 

“Of course I would!” he snaps, his tone biting now. “What were you thinking, running like that? How could you have thought that was gonna work?”

 

“I had to take the chance.”

 

“Why?” Ace barks at her.

 

She can still feel the sensation of his fingers closing around her neck. Hear the sickening crunch of his nose as her pistol connected with his face.

 

“Because I couldn’t watch it any more!” she explodes, suddenly losing her cool. “What he did to those women. What he did to those boys. Breeding stock; battle fodder. That’s all we ever were.”

 

“And how many of those boys had to die to ease your conscience?”

 

“How long would they have lived under Joe’s rule? At least now they have a chance.”

 

“A chance!” he scoffs at her. “That’s what you call it? These Pups and sick War Boys cowering in here while the men from three war parties line up to kill themselves trying to destroy you? What good have you done? None at all; they’re just kami-krazy for someone new. They die by your hand now, instead of Joe’s.”

 

She swallows hard. She’s scared he’s right, but she can’t let her doubt show in her face. What if these people had just exchanged and Immortan for an Imperator? They still had to do war, and they were not prepared. How many would die because of her?

 

“And what about you,” she asks quietly. “Are you here as a kami-krazy War Boy?”

 

“You know why they sent me.”

 

“Will you do it?”

 

Would he kill her? Could he?

 

He doesn’t answer, he just glares at his boots, shoulders hunched. He’s angry and hurt and betrayed. It was never about the cult of Joe for Ace. It was always about the men; trusting, having each other’s back. He wasn’t going to kill her for breaking that trust. He might not like her very much right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to kill his Imperator, whatever the war parties want.

 

She moves to sit across from him, mirroring his posture.

 

“How many did you find?” she asks softly.

 

He looks up at her from under hooded lids. He knows what she’s asking.

 

“Six.”

 

“Grinder and Slick?” she asks.

 

He nods. She’d seen their bike go down early in their fight with the Buzzards. It hadn’t looked like a fatal crash.

 

“Who else?”

 

“Ripper was in the war party. Got picked up after the storm. Jez we found in the Wastes, walking back to the Citadel. Daz was in the Wastes too, all but dead. He won’t last much longer without blood and water. Same for Stix.”

 

Her old crew, lining up to take her out. Or waiting to die from their injuries if the war parties can’t retake the Citadel. Injuries they suffered as a direct result of her actions. She runs through the names of men who are unaccounted for; tries to remember who fell when, but the early battle is a blur of adrenaline and fear. It’s only Ace she took out herself, but it may as well have been the others too; she took them into Buzzard territory; she told them to fang it instead of using the war parties to back them up. She sighs deeply, massaging her pulsing temples with her fingers but finds her hands are shaking and balls them into fists, hoping Ace won’t notice. She’s tired. She’s more world-weary than she’s ever been. She blinks hard to get the tears out of her eyes before she risks looking up at him. He’s watching her closely, his jaw working like he’s thinking hard.

 

“We’re trying to do something good here,” she tells him when she trusts herself to speak again. “Things are going to be different. We have a ruling council; representatives from all factions- Joe’s men, the ex-wives, the Wretched, the War Boys. Everyone gets a say. And everyone gets access to resources; food, water shelter. No more kami-krazy War Boys. Every life matters.”

 

He listens in silence, his eyes attentive.

 

“You’re welcome here,” she continues. “Everyone who wants to join us is welcome here.”

 

There’s not much else she can say; he’s still justifiably angry and hurt, and she has no defense that will change that. She calls the guard back in.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“It’s Jet,” he responds promptly, standing to attention.

 

“Jet,” she nods. “Ace is our guest. He can go wherever he wants; no one is to bother him. I want you to stay with him, and make sure he has whatever he needs while he’s here.”

 

Ace looks up in surprise, his expression quickly clouding with suspicion. It’s a risk, but if she wants his trust again, she has to show him that she trusts him first. And she needs him to be able to see the Citadel now that Joe’s gone; she knows her words will be a poor substitute for seeing how much the city has already changed, and all its potential. She’s confident in the loyalty of the inhabitants of the Citadel; in part towards her, but absolutely to the new society they are trying to build. She’s seen how much people have blossomed in the past two weeks; there’s a new vigor to the city, a sense of excitement and anticipation. There haven’t been any attempts on her life since they locked up the last troublesome War Boys on the day Max reappeared. And if their recent skirmish on the Fury Road did anything, it seemed to have cemented her position as Prime Imperator among the War Boys and Repair Boys. She thinks it unlikely that Ace would try to make a move against her, but if he does, she’s pretty sure he’ll meet a united opposition. And word will spread quickly among the War Boys and Pups; there will always be someone with eyes on him, she’ll make sure of that.

 

The council won’t like it though, she thinks as she leaves the cells, Ace free to come and go as he pleases. This was definitely not what they agreed on. But she knows it’s her best shot at getting him onside.

 

The Sisters react predictably.

 

“You did what?” Capable stares at her, open-mouthed.

 

“Have you lost your mind?” Toast shouts.

 

“I thought Max was the crazy one,” Dag snarks.

 

Only Cheedo remains quiet and thoughtful. “You know, the Pups are really excited he’s back,” she muses. “Perhaps I should tell them he’s staying; make sure he has a little entourage wherever he is in the city.”

 

“It’d make it easier to track him,” Capable agrees.

 

“Joe’s men are going to lose their shit,” Toast whistles, raising her eyebrows at Furiosa.

 

“They wanted to negotiate,” Furiosa responds. “We’re negotiating.”

 

Max is a harder sell. He appeared at the end of the corridor as she left the holding area, tensing as he saw Ace coming up behind her. The War Boy quickly went his own way with Jet following a few steps behind, heading in the direction of his bunk. Furiosa is fairly certain that none of the new recruits took his room; usually there was a freeforall when a War Boy passed, a savage fight to inherit his tools. But no one tried to divide Ace’s possessions; there was too much respect for the old man.

 

Max moved to her side. He pointed after Ace’s retreating figure, his forehead crinkled with concern. “This is a bad idea.”

 

“It’s a risk,” she had agreed, trying to keep the nervous tensions out of her voice. “But I know what I’m doing.”

 

He gave her a long doubtful look, like he didn’t want to disagree with her, but thinking that having a homicidal War Boy on the loose was not the direction he had intended his redemption pep talk to take her.

 

“Not so long ago, I took a risk on a traumatized Citadel prisoner who tried to kill me, shot at my charges, and stole my rig,” she told him softly, hoping to placate him.

 

He frowned at her. “I didn’t give you much choice.”

 

“I don’t think I have much choice here either,” she told him earnestly. “He’s not going to trust me again if I don’t give him a reason.”

  
Now Max stands with her in the council rooms as she talks to the Sisters. He followed her up here like a shadow, and she’s fairly sure he’s not going to leave her side until this thing with Ace is resolved, one way or another. The thought is a huge comfort. She doesn’t sleep much as it is. She can’t risk it; risk missing something, risk not being ready. But after two weeks of snatching an hour here and there, always tense, always ready, the idea of adding the unknown quantity of Ace to her list of worries almost made her reconsider taking a chance on him. Without Max here to watch her back, she probably wouldn’t have. The truth is she’s only been able to let her guard down long enough to sleep well when Max has been around. Since he reappeared in the Citadel, she’s felt a little more in control; a little less off-balance. Whatever Ace does or doesn’t decide to do, she feels like with Max here, she can actually handle it.


	8. Outsider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer died so I've gotten really behind on writing! I wanted to post this chapter along with Max and Furiosa's perspectives, but after such a long break I thought it'd be better just to get it up, as you've all been so patient!
> 
> This chapter's going a bit off-book because I wanted to have an outsider perspective on the new Citadel, and also have a chance to explore The Ace a bit. We'll go back to Max and Furiosa next chapter.

**Ace**

 

He tries to keep to himself, but it’s hard in this heaving city, filled to overflowing with unfamiliar faces. Nothing is how he remembered it. There’s hardly a drop of white paint anywhere in the whole Citadel; the Warboys and Pups are washed clean, their flesh showing a range of colours that he’d never seen or imagined before. Once they were all the same; impossible to tell from each other; all brothers. Now he doesn’t know what they are. A Warboy came up to greet him in the hallway, all grinning teeth and bright eyes. He wore a cloth shirt and headscarf to protect his skin from the sun; now that they don’t wear the warpaint any more, they burn after five minutes on the top of the towers in the midday heat. He looked like one of the Wretched, only too big; too healthy. Ace had no idea who he was til he caught sight of the scarification on his chest, peeking out the top of his shirt. _Bolt_ , that’s his name.

 

This morning Ace had found a clean shirt in his bunk. He’s not sure who left it here; his bunk is in the same hallway as Furiosa’s, but he’s fairly certain it didn’t come from the Imperator. Maybe one of the wives. _Ex wives_ , he corrects himself. _The Sisters_. That’s what everyone here calls them. He’d gone straight from the holding cells to the war rooms the day before, looking to see what Warboys were left and finding no one he recognized, just more Wretched, more Repair Boys dressed in Wasteland clothes. So he retreated to his bunk to hide out and regroup, and instead of finding an empty hallway where his now-lost crew used to sleep, he came face to face with four breeders and two mean-looking older women. He’d ducked quickly into his room and bolted the door as the old women watched him warily, fingers twitching towards their holsters. _Hadn’t there been five of them before?_ he thought distractedly, as he struggled to process all this new information. So much change, so many new people. There used to be order; now he sees only newness and confusion and chaos. _What has she done to this place?_

He’d slept fitfully, dreaming of the endless Wastes and the way Morsov hurled himself at the Buzzard pursuit vehicle; the cruel voice of another Warboy crying _mediocre_ as Morsov exploded; no respect; no compassion; no value for the life of his brother. He felt the blinding pain of Furiosa’s gun hitting his face.

 

This morning he awoke feeling more steady, and resolved to carry out his mission. He made it to the communal washroom, averting his eyes from the gaze of those he met in the hallway, no idea if they were Warboys or Black Thumbs or Wretched. No idea if he’s fought by their sides or kicked them off the platform back into the masses. He reapplied his warpaint in the little broken mirror someone had hung above the sink. He blacked up his forehead. When he got back to his room he found the clean shirt on his bed. He doesn’t wear it.

 

Feeling more like himself now, he heads out to the mess hall to get some food, assuming that there must still be some kind of communal breakfast--clearly everyone here is eating. The room is heaving with unfamiliar faces, just as he expected. He feels like all eyes are on him; the only white standing out brightly in a room full of tan and olive and ochre and umber. He quickly spots Furiosa on the far side of the room. The man sitting next to her tenses as Ace walks by, but Furiosa just nods at him in acknowledgement and continues eating her food. The man’s eyes follow Ace steadily until he reaches the vats of food on the other side of the room. Clearly Furiosa has a new second.

 

One of the Milk Mothers hands him a bowl and he starts in surprise. He’s never been this close to a Milk Mother before and he fumbles with his words, finally managing to take the bowl with a nod of thanks as he backs away slowly. He’s only ever seen the Milk Mothers in glimpses through half opened doors which quickly close in his face. She’s beautiful; so well-fed and healthy, her skin luminous and her eyes bright and focused. He keeps sneaking glances over at her as he eats. This new world of Furiosa’s is very strange; Warboys dressing like Wretched, Milk Mothers walking around like regular people--serving Wretched even. Or are they Repair Boys? He squints at the boy closest to him as he accepts a bowl of broth from the Milk Mother with a grateful nod. It’s impossible to tell. Across the room is a sea of unfamiliar faces, strange clothes, and reversed social orders. He has no idea where he belongs in this place.

 

He shakes his head to clear it of all this confusion; he _doesn’t_ belong in this place, that’s the whole point. That’s why he’s here. To help the war parties restore order. To bring the power back to its rightful owners; Immortan Joe’s heirs. Word is that Corpus Colossus is still alive here, though he’s seen no evidence of the man. And he’s not ready to let himself think too much about what it will mean to restore that power. They expect him to take out Furiosa; to betray his Imperator. Sometimes he thinks he can do it. As he looks at her now across the hall, he sees the faces of his crew; watches them fall. That was all her. She threw away their loyalty like they were even less than half-lives. Like they were sick and spent and good for nothing but being put down. Those poor boys, thinking that they were dying historic; that their deaths had meaning. But they were dying for a lie. He feels the crack of the gun against his face again; sees the hardness in her eyes as she’d pushed him from the rig. They died for Furiosa’s betrayal.

 

He suddenly becomes aware of the man at Furiosa’s side again, on high alert at Ace’s focused attention on the Imperator. Ace quickly looks back to his soup, busying himself with eating. Getting at Furiosa is going to be hard enough as it is, even without her shadow. He’s never met a stronger warrior; she’s fast and sharp and determined. When they used to spar, back when they were just starting to do war, she would always beat him. She would beat most all of the Warboys she fought, except the really big ones. He wonders if she might have gotten the upper hand even on them if it was a real fight, if she really had to; if her life depended on it. Sparring was one thing, but war was different. In war, she never hesitated. He’s going to have to get really clear on what he’s going to do, and to commit to it. There’s no room for doubt, because if she sees him coming and he flinches, she’ll put him down.

 

Getting past Furiosa’s shadow is going to make the task even harder; he clearly has Ace’s number, and Ace knows nothing about him. He’s at a distinct disadvantage. Priority number one is going to be figuring out this guy’s deal, and what his weaknesses are. He’s already spotted a leg brace, but that doesn’t seem to slow the man down much. He’s twitchy, in the way that some of the Warboys get after a bad battle. _Shell shock_ is what some of the oldies used to call it, or at least that’s what he vaguely remembers from his childhood. You don’t see too many Warboys like that these days; maybe because they’re excited to get to Valhalla, or maybe just because they don’t live long enough for war to affect them that way. Chances are if they see something really bad, they don’t live through it themselves. But he’s seen people like that over the years; raw and wild. A few Warboys who had lived too long. Ferrals out in the Wastes. The women they brought back to Joe…He was always glad Joe locked his wives away in the vault; they made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like to see them.

 

He considers the Sisters now, sitting on the other side of Furiosa. He almost didn’t recognize them; their appearance has changed along with everyone else in this city. They wear jackets made of leather and head coverings that look like wool (Is that what the material’s called? He hasn’t seen it in a long time. He remembers it comes from sheep, but he hasn’t seen one of those in years). The fierce little one looks much has he remembers, but only because he’d been in the Citadel when she’d cut off her hair. It used to be long, but she’d hacked it all off with a knife she’d got hold of who knows how. She’d done it right before they’d run, he realizes now. At the time he’d thought it was an act of rebellion, like when The Splendid Angharad broke a glass and cut up her face. He thought The Knowing was trying to lash out at Joe, spoil herself for him. That’s the effect it seemed to have at any rate, the Immortan was furious, screaming and howling about his damaged property. But looking at her now, the similarity to the Imperator is striking. It’s not just the shorn hair, he realizes. It’s the way she holds herself; calm and steady but with a gaze so intense you know there’s a raging inferno inside. Furiosa has that same look. The Knowing turns her gaze on him now, and he realizes she’s watching him the same way that man is. With the same wariness. Like she’s ready to put him down if he so much as moves the wrong way. He looks back down at his soup. Getting to Furiosa is looking like it’s going to be harder with every minute.

 

Suddenly he feels a pulling at his belt. He’s so tense that he almost whips around to knock whoever it is flying, but the touch is familiar enough to give him pause. Turning he finds a little boy standing at his elbow, pulling at him to get his attention and then raising his arms in anticipation of being lifted onto the bench. It’s a Pup, he realizes. Of course it is, what other little boys are in the Citadel? Still, the sight of him scrubbed clean of warpaint is momentarily jarring. The boy continues to stare at him with arms outstretched, and he realizes that this isn’t just any Pup, it’s a boy who used to follow him around the Citadel. Too young to have earned his grease; too young to be apprenticed to a Warboy; too young even for a name. He’d just followed Ace around, wanting to be close to him. Sometimes Ace would carry the Pup on his shoulders, if he wasn’t getting in the way. He reaches out instinctively now, lifting the boy up and setting him on the bench as he’d requested. The boy settles in next to Ace and stretches his arms out for his bowl of soup, just out of reach. Ace pushes it a little closer til the Pup can grab it by himself. More movement out of the corner of his eye and he looks up to see that more Pups have joined him at his solitary table. Were they always this young, he wonders? They seemed older before, but maybe that was just the paint, making them look like small soldiers. Now their wide eyes seem huge and guileless, and their shaved heads so vulnerable. They wear shirts and jackets too, like everyone else, made crudely out of scraps of fabric. In Furiosa’s world, he realizes suddenly, these little boys may never have to learn to fight. Or at least not for a long time yet. They may even still be alive in a decade… what a thought.

 

Now there’s a woman in front of him; he didn’t see her approach, too lost in thought. Stupid to get so careless, he curses himself. What if it had been a Warboy or one of the Wretched, assuming there was even any difference between them any more. Then again, what’s to say that the women aren’t as lethal as any of the men now? She holds his gaze steadily as she takes a seat in front of him. The Pups seem to warm at her presence, and she shows no sign of affection nor menace towards him. She just observes him. She’s one of the wives; he recognizes her now. The youngest; the newest. She wears a woven headband and a leather jacket, and she gazes at him with soft, curious brown eyes.

 

He remembers her coming here. Usually he didn’t see the wives arrive; he wasn’t part of the raiding parties, not any more. Not since he’d risen up in the ranks. For the last few years he’d only done supply runs and diplomatic missions; he didn’t scout or raid these days. But he remembered this one because she hadn’t come in like they usually do; tied and screaming or silent and all screamed-out. This one had been traded. He remembered her family coming to town; they were musicians. They’d played in the Citadel square for the Immortan. This girl and a whole passel of siblings and cousins and friends. She was surrounded by children; maybe that’s why the memory had been conjured so easily, seeing her now surrounded by the boys. He remembered thinking even then that she had seemed young; just one of so many children. But no, Joe had always taken them young. Wasn’t Furiosa just a teenager when she came to the city? He pushes that memory away; it does not good to him to go chasing memories like that, knowing what he has to do.

 

“You’re The Ace,” the girl says now.

 

He grunts in acknowledgement, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation. She’s part of the reason his crew are mostly dead. She defied the Immortan. And he’s well aware of the gaze of Furiosa and her man, and the other Sister-wives, burning into him from the other side of the room, watching his every move with this woman. He does not like being the focus of this attention. He wants her to go away and leave him in peace.

 

“I’m Cheedo,” she continues, either oblivious of his discomfort or careless of it. He suspects the latter; there’s a sharpness to the way she’s observing him, like she’s trying to figure him out.

 

“I hope the boys haven’t been getting in your way,” she speaks again. Her voice is soft and light and so girlish he could almost let his guard down, but that sharpness in her eyes keeps him wary. “They’re very excited to have you here.”

 

“Is The Ace going to live with us again?” one of the Pups asks, looking between Cheedo and the older man with wide, hopeful eyes.

 

“Furiosa said he’s welcome to, Zachary,” Cheedo responds, somehow managing to address the boy without taking her focus off Ace.

 

“You named them?” Ace can’t help himself. He had resolved not to engage with her, but hearing her address the Pup by name had peaked his curiosity.

 

“They named themselves,” she responds.

 

“They’re too young to have names; they haven’t even earned their grease yet,” he says critically, shaking his head at this new world order.

 

“Everyone deserves to have a name,” she corrects him gently but firmly. “That isn’t something you have to earn.”

 

“We’re not things,” the Pup next to him says earnestly.

 

There’s that phrase again; he’s heard it a number of times since he arrived here.

 

“My mother named me,” the Pup called Zachary informs him.

 

Of course they’re young enough to still remember the names their parents called them. It made sense that they might reclaim them; hold on to their past identities. For War Pups, the paint and the shedding of old names was part of the process; leaving that old life behind. Earning your grease and getting your new name was a rite of passage; a sign that you’d become another of so many brothers, all equal, all warriors. He can’t remember the name his mother gave him; can’t remember anything about her really, except a vague impression of yellow hair and the smell of engine grease. Had his mother been a road warrior? Something about that seems right; he feels like he remembers being a child on the road… He pushes the memory away. He’s probably just getting mixed up with memories of being a child in the Citadel, working on the war machines with the mechanics. Stupid to let himself get distracted by such flights of fancy. That was the past, before he became a Warboy. That was another life, long dead.

 

Now another of the Sisters has appeared before him, sliding onto the bench next to Cheedo. She’s got the whitest hair he’s ever seen and it’s braided in a complicated style with little bones and bits of wood woven in with the hair. Her eyes are an unnervingly pale blue, and she stares at him with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably.

 

“Your nose needs seeing to. Bet you can’t hardly breathe through that thing,” she speaks finally, and he realizes that she’s been assessing his injuries as she stared at him. For the first time he wishes he’d put on that shirt, feeling oddly exposed under her gaze.

 

“We’ll have to re-break it to set it straight,” she continues. “It’ll hurt like hell and it won’t ever be really straight again, but we can get it better than it’s looking now. Looks like that arm needs seeing to as well- got some fleshrot starting. That’ll need to be treated right away.”

 

“Can’t treat fleshrot. Only cut off the dead parts,” he grunts in response.

 

“Course you can treat it,” she rolls her eyes at him. “Just because the Organic Mechanic didn’t bother, doesn’t mean it isn’t possible. We’ve got healers here now. First thing is to clean it and give you medicine. We don’t treat people like cars here- you don’t just throw out the parts that aren’t working. People aren’t things.”

 

That damn refrain again; they say it like a mantra, like a prayer. He knows people aren’t things, he but he wishes that they were. You can fix things; engines, bodywork, rigs. Whatever happened to them, however broken down they got, you could always resurrect them, fix them up like new. People aren’t like that. They’re all just blood and guts and flesh walking around until the night fevers or the cancers get them. If they’re lucky, they die historic in war. He’s not so lucky; he’s lived too long. And now he’s here trying to do one last meaningful thing, and return the Citadel to it’s rightful owners. And he’ll have to betray his Imperator to do it. Her, and these strange fierce women who talk about themselves as if they matter, and these boys who claim names they never earned but that mean something anyways. _We’re trying to do something good here_ , Furiosa had said. _Every life matters_.

 

He gets up quickly from the table and walks quickly away from them, out of the mess hall of unfamiliar faces and over to the mechanics rooms in Tower Three. None of this makes any sense to him, but some things stay the same. War machines all look different on the outside, but under the hood they’re all the same. He craves the orderliness of an engine right now more than anything.

 

The Repair Boys look up as he enters the workshop, but no one says anything. A few of them give him a nod of acknowledgement, but no one questions him being there. He watches them for a few minutes, working on a War Rig like the one he used to run with Furiosa. They tinker for a while and then give the signal to the boy in the cab to start it up. There’s an odd rattle coming from somewhere in the engine that they can’t quite figure out. He watches them work for a while, working to find what’s loose, trying the engine again, then trying something else. Eventually he steps forward to take a look. No one questions him, but one of the boys hands him a wrench as he slides under the rig. Seems like some things don’t change. Even in this new Citadel, they still need machines, and machines still need fixing. There are other projects going on in the shop too; parts being squirrelled away for other engines. A sketch that looks like it’s part of the hydroponics system. A machine that looks like it could be used for air filtration. The new projects seem like they’re causing a lot of excitement, and boys keep dropping in to work on them throughout the day, drawing animated discussion with each new discovery.

 

There’s women in the shop now too, he notes. Not a lot of them, but significantly more than there ever had been before. He supposes they must have come in from the Wastelands. They seem to have skills, and the Black Thumbs accept them with the same easiness with which they’d accepted Ace’s presence. Everyone here knows how to work with machines, and in this new world that seems to be the only thing that matters. Ace stays under the cab of the rig, working on bringing the engine back into equilibrium.

 

The chatter of the Warboys and Repair Boys becomes a comforting hum in the background while he works. He tells himself he’s doing reconnaissance, lying under the rig silently picking up information, listening to their stories. What he’s gathered is that the Sisters have great plans about improving water usage and hygiene, and that they want to control the airflow in the whole city, sealing off the toxic air from the outside and making sure that everything inside the mountains is pure, the way the air in the vault is filtered and purified. They think they can help the sick to live for longer, maybe even stop the young ones from getting sick at all. It all seems like dream-talk to him. Don’t that know that three war parties are sitting at their door, just waiting for a chance to get in and kill them all? And he’s the key, just working here right under their noses, waiting for a chance to take out Furiosa and betray them all. But it’s not betrayal, is it? No, they are the traitors here. He doesn’t owe them any allegiance.

 

He learns that Furiosa’s shadow is a man named Max. A lone road warrior, feral, pulled out of the Wastelands shortly before Furiosa and the wives ran from Joe. Somehow he ended up out there with the women; no one seems clear on how exactly. But they say he fights like a demon and drove the rig as well as Furiosa. They say she was dead and he brought her back to life. It’s going to be hard enough to kill Furiosa as it is, even if he wasn’t so conflicted over his mission, even if she wasn’t the best warrior he’s ever met, even if she didn’t seem to command the unquestioning loyalty of everyone in the Citadel. On top of it all she has a shadow who can bring back the dead.

 

It’s late in the day by the time he clambers out from under the rig, and as he stands up, two weeks of barely surviving in the Wasteland hit him with the force of a War Rig. He’s been running on empty for days; the war parties patched him up a little, and in the Citadel he got food and water, but suddenly the exhaustion crashes over him like a wave. He hurts in more places than he can name, and his head swims and his bones ache and it’s so hard to breathe with his nose all smashed up the way it is. He sways for a moment, reaching out to steady himself against the cab, misjudges the distance and slips. He’s already passed out before he hits the ground.

 

When he comes to he’s not sure where he is for a long while. He’s in some in between place, not really here but not unconscious any more. Sounds are distant and hard to place; people move across his vision as blurred shadows. Is he in the desert? Where’s his crew? Where’s the rig? But no, it’s too dark to be the Wastes. He’s inside somewhere… back at the Citadel?

 

Memories slowly float into place. He’s in the Citadel. Furiosa runs this place now. Immortan Joe is dead. Furiosa betrayed him; betrayed them all.

 

He tries to sit up but his head swims and hands are quickly pushing him back down.

 

“Told you that fleshrot needed treating,” a voice closeby tells him scornfully.

 

He recognizes it but he’s not sure why. Squinting he sees white hair, a woman bending over his bandaged arm. One of the Sisters.

 

There’s something else; a familiar feeling of strength and regeneration that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Already his head is clearing and his limbs feel less heavy. He looks down at his other arm, notes the IV poking out of his vein. They’re giving him blood? How long has it been since he’s had a transfusion? He’s old; at the end of his half-life. The Organic Mechanic stopped wasting good blood on him months ago. And he’d only been kept on as long as he had because he was part of Furiosa’s crew. Most Warboys never get as old as him; if they don’t die in war they get put out to pasture as their bodies start to fail. He was a special case, but even his status didn’t give him permanent access to clean blood. Why would these people think any different?

 

He follows the tubing of the IV with his eyes, tracing it to its source. Furiosa’s shadow sits a short distance away.

 

“This is Max; he’s got good blood. Heals fast.” Cheedo is sitting near him, checking his IV.

 

 _Bloodbag_ , he’d heard some of the Warboys refer to him as that. So Max was a bloodbag once? A universal donor. Ace can already feel the effect of the man’s blood running through his veins, reinvigorating him. High octane. Why did Ace do to deserve this special treatment?

 

He watches Max curiously. The man looks like he’s trying not to jump out of his own skin. He’s got that feral look about him, and he jumps with every new sound, eyes darting about, always alert for threats, sitting very still as his hands grip the edge of his seat, knuckles white. He is clearly not happy about being here, blood draining into an ailing Warboy.

 

Furiosa must have asked him, Ace realizes. Or if she didn’t ask him directly, Max must have offered, knowing that she would want it. That she needs Ace to live. Ace has the sense that this man wouldn’t deny the Imperator anything. But does she want Ace to live because she needs him to bargain with, or because she values his life as her lieutenant; as her oldest friend?

 

Right now he’s not sure if it really matters.

 

He lets his body relax for the first time since he got back to the Citadel, soaking up the new strength from the blood transfusion. He closes his eyes.

 

When he opens them again, Cheedo and the white-haired Sister are gone, and a Warboy is hovering closeby. Ace frowns at him in the half-light, trying to figure out if he knows him.

 

“Bolt, isn’t it?” he rasps finally.

 

“Yes boss,” the boy responds, shuffling a little closer.

 

The boy is hanging around uncertainly.

 

“What do you want?” Ace asks.

 

“Just to see,” the boy shrugs like he’s not really sure himself. “Heard you were taken to the infirmary. Thought you were a goner- that’s what people were saying. But I thought, you survived all those days in the Wastes, and you made it back here. And you survived so much war. Seemed like you couldn’t be done yet. Didn’t think you’d die soft.”

 

Ace looks the boy over. He’s older than most, Ace realizes. Probably one of the Warboys left behind because he was too sick to fight. He looks in better shape now though, but definitely getting towards the end of his half-life.

 

“I’m still here,” Ace nods, casting a glance over to his bloodbag, to _Max_ , who’s sitting as far away as he safely can, staring intently at the floor; looking anywhere but at Ace.

 

"Do you believe in Valhalla?" the boy asks him nervously.

 

So there is still uncertainty, Ace thinks. The old ways hold strong, even if the boys fight for a new leader.

 

"The sisters say it was all a lie,” he continues. “That Joe lied to us and used us as battle fodder. He told us we would ride eternal in Valhalla so we wouldn't care if we died."

 

The boy seems to be struggling with theses words, as if he's still hoping they aren't true; that his friends and brothers didn't all die for nothing. He's looking to Ace for reassurance, for comfort. Ace is the oldest Warboy around, the closest thing many of the younger ones had to a father, second to the Prime Imperator. Surely he would know the truth. Surely he wouldn't have lied to them?

 

"You used to pray when they fell," the boy continues. "The rest of us would cheer because we knew they went on to Valhalla. But you never did. You prayed."

 

"I did it to honor them," Ace replies, thinking of the whoops and screams of the Warboys over their fallen comrades. Or worse, the jeers of _mediocre_. He would always witness them, that was important. That was something he'd started with his crew, and it had caught on with the other Warboys. Witnessing the men so they knew they were seen, so they didn't face death alone. And then he'd make the V8 sign in respect, to honor their sacrifice. He was always well aware of how contradictory his actions must have seemed; it they were going to Valhalla it wasn't a sacrifice. If they were going to Valhalla, death was a privilege. He wondered if he had ever believed in Joe's religion. He had always protected life, had mourned death, had never desired to get to Valhalla himself.

 

"But do you believe in it?" the Warboy is waiting anxiously, his eyes fixed on Ace, waiting for confirmation.

 

It would be so easy to undermine Furiosa's rule. Clearly the doubts are there, and it would be easy enough for him to fuel them, spread insubordination among the men. They would listen to him. And it's what he'd been sent here to do; take out Furiosa, give control of the Citadel back to the war parties. But he finds himself hesitating. Maybe betraying Furiosa would save lives; stop unnecessary killing. He'd be protecting the boys in the war parties. But protecting them for what, so they could die another day for a fruitless cause? What if Furiosa and the Sisters are right? What if it was all lies?  What were they dying for?

 

He gives the boy a long hard look, deciding on his response. Finally he speaks.

 

"No, I don't believe in Valhalla."

 

The Warboy’s eyes widen for a second, then a calm comes over him. He sets his jaw with a look of something like rage and nods, as if finally accepting something he’d always known.

 

“That bastard,” he mutters. “All those lives…”

 

Ace sighs and closes his eyes. Yes, all those lives. Boys raised to die for a greedy old man, sold fantasies about Valhalla so they wouldn’t hesitate. Battle fodder.

 

And what about her, then? What of Furiosa and the Sisters, and their own religion. _We are not things_. How many boys would die for that invocation? Was that any better? Ace isn’t sure of anything anymore.

  
He sits up slowly and removes the IV from his arm. Max starts up warily, watching him rise. Ace nods once in thanks; it’s the least he can do. He leaves quietly, feeling like he’s aged a hundred years.


	9. Watching

**Max**

 

He breathes in slowly for four counts; breathes out again for eight. He focuses on relaxing his diaphragm; on releasing the pressure in his chest and pushing against his throat. He tries to breathe from his stomach and not from his chest; in for four; hold for seven; out for eight. He’s not sure where he picked up these strategies; whether they just come instinctively, or whether they are a remnant from first responder training in the MFP. There were plenty of terrorized civilians having panic attacks in the outback, back in the day. He quickly discovered that actually having a panic attack is very different to knowing how they work in theory.

 

He tries to focus on the things he can see and feel- on the facts- and not on the fear welling up in his chest. He counts the jars of herbs that Dag has started to accumulate on the shelves of the infirmary; he tries to identify their contents. He does not think about where he is; about the fear he felt last time he was trapped in this place; about the fear of feeling that fear again and the endless circle of fear begetting fear that such thinking leads towards. He focuses on grounding himself in the present; on the pattern of Dag’s hair, tied back in a complicated braid. On the soft touch of Cheedo’s fingers against his arm, carefully checking the placement of his IV.

 

He is exposed, like a live wire; like a raw nerve. He can see it in the looks Cheedo and Dag give him, in the way they’re extra gentle with him. They know how on edge he is. They know that just being in this room is torture. The shame burns hot in his cheeks. He hates to be seen like this; for his pain to be witnessed. On the war rig, when he’d struck an uneasy detente with Furiosa and let them all back on board, he’d been terrified, but he hid it well by growling orders and waving a gun around. All posturing. It was clear from the moment Furiosa got back behind the wheel that she was in charge. And she knew it too; that’s why she didn’t push him; didn’t try to fight him. The Sisters snapped and snarled and glared; he’d had them fooled at first. They hadn’t seen his terror of them because he’d made sure they were blinded by their fear of him. Their fear of all men. They hadn’t known he shared their fear. Furiosa must have guessed it though.

 

Well now they all know. Now they’ve all seen how on-edge he is. They’re trying to rebuild their lives, trying to make something of this place. While he just has to enter the wrong room and he’ll start to hypoventilate. Sometimes it’s just the anticipation that does it; the fear of the fear. His frustration at the useless waste of energy is almost as strong as the fear itself. Almost.

 

This is how he measures time now; in the snatches of calm in between the endless cycles of fear and shame and frustration. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about being so constantly afraid is how much time you lose. He can barely remember the last few years; the last decade even. It passed before his eyes in a blur of adrenaline and panic, followed by endless stretches of flat greyness. His memory is punctuated here and there by trauma; Jesse and his son; Goose; Glory. But mostly it’s just that haze of nothingness while he ran from the fear that trauma conjured up; never feeling safe; never able to stop; never able to live. So much wasted time.

 

He’s so used to that feeling of fear and timelessness, that the moments of hope and human connection he’s experienced since meeting Furiosa and the Sisters seem like an aberration. Even as he fights to keep it, he cannot shake the feeling that this is all temporary; that it cannot last; that the fear is just lurking around the corner ready to envelop him once more. He can’t trust himself to hope; even if there was nothing to fear, even if they were safe, it would only be a matter of time before his demons come for him. He doesn’t know how to turn off that anticipation of impending disaster. And he hates it because of how it consumes him.

 

So he knew the toll it would take on him to down to the infirmary, but there wasn’t any choice. Ace was probably going to die, and Furiosa wanted him to live. She would never have asked this of Max, and so he offered. Because he knew she needed Ace to live, and his blood heals quickly. High octane.

 

Furiosa and Capable and Toast were going to talk to Corpus Collosus; were going to bargain with him. They were going to strike a deal with Joe’s son, and then use his claim to the throne to negotiate with the war parties through Ace. Ace was their only contact with the outside; with the Warboys howling at their door. They needed him to help bring the Warboys onside. To stop the fighting. To avoid more unnecessary killing.

 

And Furiosa wanted him to live. Max had seen the conflict in her since Ace had returned. He remembered well the pain of losing a partner; though it was so many years past it seemed like a lifetime ago. Goose was the first person Max had lost, and he had lost so many people since. But Goose was the first, and so he remembered the despair as acutely as if it were yesterday. He knew it must have taken a huge toll on Furiosa to sacrifice her second. To betray her crew. At the time he’d thought losing Goose was the worst thing that had happened. That could happen. Back then, he’d no idea how bad things could get; how bad they _would_ get so soon after that. When he had gone rogue, when the MFP and what remained of civilization had gone to hell, it still wasn’t easy to walk away. He just felt like he didn’t have a choice; like he had nothing else to lose. His family was dead; his wife and child split open on an outback road because the law really couldn’t do anything to maintain order any more; couldn’t protect anyone. Everything that meant anything to him was gone in a matter of hours, and he could see no way forward besides vengeance. That was at least something he could do.

 

When she had run, Furiosa still had things to lose; her status; her crew; her lieutenant; her life if Joe caught her. She had risked it all because she thought redemption was worth it. And maybe she thought taking the wives would exact some measure of vengeance on Joe for whatever he had done to her over the years. Max didn’t know how Furiosa had come to be at the Citadel; he hadn’t asked. She’d tell him if she wanted to. But he didn’t believe in sharing past trauma in some futile attempt at alleviating the pain. Terrible things happened; talking about them wouldn’t change that. At some point when you’ve experienced enough loss, when enough people have tried to break you, when you’ve seen enough horror, it becomes impossible to pinpoint the thing that tortures you. There are so many things, all piling up one on top of another. At first Max had thought vengeance would help, but it hadn’t brought him any peace; had just brought with it more nightmares and more guilt. Fear over what he had become and where he could possibly go from here. Maybe it was the same for Furiosa; maybe she too had tried to fight back against those who had harmed her, full of hate and pain, before she adapted to her circumstances and made them work for her. Probably it was always her plan to run; she’d suggested as much on the war rig. Getting home, back to the Green Place and the Many Mothers was always her aim. Her last hope.

 

But clearly it was the Sisters who had started her thinking about redemption; that bringing them with her might go some way to balancing all the wrongs, everything she’d no-doubt had to do to survive. Now the idea of redemption tugs at him too, winds itself inside his brain and into his heart until he starts to hope in spite of himself. And the fear that his hope could be in vain is overwhelming.

 

So he volunteers his blood for Ace, because Furiosa needs him to live; because her plans bring hope; because maybe there can be redemption for him even now. He keeps his eyes on the ground and does not look at the white-painted old Warboy spread out on the table next to him; tries to ignore the way his skin crawls and every instinct yells at him to run as he sits and waits in such close proximity to someone who represents such a mortal threat. But Max wanted to be useful; that’s why he said he stayed. He’d known that being useful would make him vulnerable. He hadn’t anticipated a siege; being trapped in the Citadel being forced to confront his anxiety every day. It’s difficult enough to be around people anyway; he’s never been a particularly social person, even before civilization fell. That man seems like a stranger to him now, but there are some instincts, some preferences, some elements of who he was that survive. He was always reserved and sometimes withdrawn, preferring to spend time at home with his family or in the company of a few select individuals. But the Citadel is loud and bustling and cramped, and the Sisters share everything and are so physical, and the Warboys talk and talk. Furiosa is quiet--stoic--which is a welcome relief. But it’s still embarrassing to have to be so raw in front of her; there’s no where to hide. He almost laughs at the idea of being embarrassed about anything; he thought the overriding instinct to survive in a wasteland of constant peril had wiped out all other feeling. But since coming to the Citadel he’s found he can still feel emotions as pedestrian as self consciousness, and the desire for a little privacy.

 

There’s little chance of that though. They live their lives in public in the Citadel, and he knows he’s been singled out for particular attention because he came back with Furiosa and the Sisters. Because he brought Furiosa back from the brink of death. Even now tThere are Pups lurking shyly at the entrance of the infirmary, being periodically shooed away by Dag or Cheedo so they don’t get in the way. They can’t help themselves; they want to see the mad road warrior whose blood heals bring The Ace back from death.

 

Max has seen few war boys as old as Ace; he knows the man must be at the end of his half-life. And he’s lost his position, his status, his crew, his Immortan; his entire culture and way of life. He’s a man with nothing left to lose, and Max knows exactly how dangerous that makes a person. He almost thought twice about offering his blood when Ace is finally down for the count; it was only Furiosa that makes him change his mind. There have been many times since their first meeting that he’s doubted her; that he’s wondered at her decisions. Raised his eyebrows at a call she’d made but stayed silent. Given her a warning and then watched her go ahead anyway. But he’s only once questioned her: when she wanted to drive across the salt. He’d heard the doubt in her voice that night when she came to him; all her best laid plans in ruins, like the wasteland of the Green Place. He knew there had to be a better way; that she would die running in order to protect her people.

 

He doesn’t see that doubt in her now. There’s guilt, for sure. She’ll carry what she did to her crew for the rest of her life. But Max knows she wouldn’t risk the safety of her people for Ace. She’s already taken him out once; she won’t hesitate to do it again. But she believes he can be brought onside, and Max can only trust her instincts. She knows Ace better than he does, after all.

 

But he does not trust Ace. He hasn’t slept in the 36 hours since the old Warboy returned. He’s taken shifts on the snipers perch but only if Furiosa is resting near him, somewhere in his field of vision. He’s glad of he way the Pups follow Ace around because it’s easier to track the man- he can always hear the entourage coming.

 

Now Max notices a Warboy who’s been lurking about by the infirmary with the same persistence as the Pups. Max recognizes him from the repair rooms, but he’s not sure if he was originally a Black Thumb or a Warboy. He’s watching Ace with an intensity bordering on awe. Ace clearly carried a lot of weight with the other Warboys, and it makes Max very nervous to see their reverence. Ace is a completely unknown quantity, and letting him loose in the Citadel could result in an insurrection if things go the wrong way.

 

Cheedo and Dag are busy with other patients across the room, so the boy takes his chance, making his way in cautiously, glancing over at Max but paying him little further attention. His eyes are only on Ace. The boy asks about Valhalla, about whether Ace believes. Max thrums with tension, trying to appear disinterested so as not to discourage Ace from talking, but straining to hear every word. Ace rejects the cult of Joe, but Max doesn’t believe it. Maybe it’s true, but he has no reason to believe anything coming out of Ace’s mouth, particularly when Max sitting less than six feet away. Maybe Ace is hoping he’ll report back to Furiosa, saying Ace can be trusted. Distrust of everyone and everything is all that’s kept Max alive for a very long time, and he’s not about to change his habits now when so much hangs in the balance.

 

Still, there’s something curiously respectful in the way Ace nods to him in thanks as he removes his IV and turns to leave the infirmary.

 

But now is not the time for Max to let his guard down. Ace is going to be stronger now, and potentially even more of a danger to Furiosa, or worse, the Sisters. Max has been trailing Furiosa like a shadow but he also trusts that she can take care of herself. It occurs to him now that Ace might see the Sisters as threats too, or potential bargaining chips if he’s unable to get near Furiosa. Max isn’t so worried about Toast; he’s worked with her a little over the past few days, showing her some self-defense moves, how to use her short stature to her advantage and defend herself against a much bigger body. And she’s already a great shot--she started training with Furiosa and the Vuvalini as soon as they got back to the Citadel. Dag is the darling of the repair boys; she’s rarely ever alone, and Max is fairly confident that they would leap to her defense even if someone with the status of Ace came at her. Cheedo is usually surrounded by Pups and the fiercely protective Milk Mothers, who seem to inspire enough reverence in the other inhabitants of the Citadel that Max supposes they will afford Cheedo some safety. Capable, though… she is often alone with her books and her ledgers, planning, calculating, worrying. From what Max understands, she was the closest to Angharad--they had both been brought to the Citadel at the same time, Cheedo and Dag arriving much later--and she seems to have taken Angharad’s death the hardest. And she had formed a close bond with the Warboy on the rig, even for just a short time. She seems to have a strong sense of empathy and justice, a lethal combination, Max thinks. She walks around with the responsibility of the Citadel weighing on her shoulders, lost in thought, unaware of her surroundings, unprepared for potential danger.

 

Any sense of respite that Max felt in the Citadel is gone. He doesn’t sleep; he is on high alert all the time; pressure builds in his chest like a weight is pressing against his sternum and in his throat. He catches himself grinding his teeth nervously, and finds cuts on his palms where is nails have dug into the flesh from balled fists. He can’t let his guard down. The feeling of impending doom and barely staved-off panic is all around him. He sticks close to Furiosa; tries hard to keep track of the Sisters; encourages Capable to work in the more public spaces and not off in some quiet dangerously exposed spot. He watches for the telltale signs of marching Pups, trailing after Ace. At night he sits up in the hallway to the Sisters’ quarters, staring blindly into the darkness, straining his ears against the silence, his gun clutched in his sweaty palm.

  
He makes it 24 hours after the transfusion before he passes out from the blood loss and the exhaustion. He dreams of his wife and child being run down on the road. He dreams of Glory. He sees Angharad crushed under the wheels. He dreams of Ace plunging a knife into Furiosa’s side. He sees the Sisters taken, one by one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient, folks. The last few weeks have been super busy, but I'm hoping to get back on more of a regular writing routine soon!


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